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Jeanne M. Mowell 


w 

A 

COMMON MISTAKE 


O. 3 . JANUARY, 1892. ISSUED MONTHLY, SUBSCRIPTION, $6.00 PER YEAR 
Entered at St. Paul post office as second class matter. 

— — — — — WfKa a'WWU l ' MIH— WW ft i aMIW 






A Common Mistake 


BY 


/ 


JEANNE M. HOWELL 

n 


***L,and me,* she says, * where love 
Shows but one shaft, one dove, 

One heart, one hand.^ 

‘A shore like that, my dear, 

Lies where no man will steer. 

No maiden land,* ** 

— Swinburne. 



1892 


Copyrighted 1892 

BY 

THE PRICE-McGILL CO. 


PRINTED AND PLATED BY 

THE PRICE-McGILL COMPANY 

ST. PAUL, MINN. 


CHAPTER I. 


“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old time is still a-flying; 

And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying.” 

— Herrick, 


Fifth Avenue in thevicinity of St. Thomas’ church 
was filled with a crowd of curious spectators, who 
pressed against openings in the red and white awn- 
ing which stretched from the open door across the 
pavement, pushing and jostling each other in their 
efforts to catch a glimpse of the wedding guests as 
they crossed from their carriages to the church. 

The greater portion of the crowd were women, 
drawn there by curiosity to see what they could of 
the smart wedding, with reference to which all the 
society papers had been filled for some time previous 
to the actual lighting of the hymeneal torch. Many 
hoped to elude the vigilance of ushers and policemen, 
and gain entrance to the sacred edifice, and there 
was much grumbling and many invidious remarks 
as to the severity of these functionaries, and the gen- 
eral selectness of the swell ‘‘400.” 

Inside the church there was a subdued and well- 
bred murmur of voices, and the continuous frou-frou 
of silk and satin as one arrival after another walked 


6 


A COMMON Mistake. 


slowly down the long aisle, smiling and chatting in 
an undertone with the accompanying usher, and one 
felt in the air that nervous tension which always 
accompanies expectancy. Each time the door opened 
h-eads were turned, and there was a continuous 
watching to see if anyone could catch the signal 
which would notify the organist that the wedding 
party had arrived. 

In a pew a little to one side, but admirably located 
for seeing, two young girls in street costume were 
seated. By the smiles and bows lavished in every 
direction, it was evident they had numerous acquaint- 
ances among the throng; evident, also, that they 
were waiting for some one. 

‘‘I wonderwhat keeps Sylvia?” said the older girl, 
a tall and stylish person with that peculiar air of 
being well dressed, and knowing it, which seems com- 
mon to New York women. There was something 
particularly interesting about Kate Lawrence^s face; 
she was not handsome, but there was a charm 
about her irregular features which held the attention 
longer than more perfect beauty could have done; 
she was not a popular girl, but one of those people 
whose position is well assured, and with whom 
other girls are glad to be seen. 

‘'Sylvia is always late,” answered her companion. 
“I think she runs back for a last peep in the glass.” 

“I think, rather,” interrupted Miss Lawrence, 
“that she does it purposely. Sylvia likes to create a 
sensation whenever she can, and, no matter how mild 
a one it is, she enjoys it. It is very bad form, I 
think.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


7 


‘^You are too severe, Kate,’’ answered Margaret 
Seymour gently. “I am sure Sylvia does not inten- 
tionally make herself conspicuous.” 

Miss Lawrence did not answer, but she looked 
kindly at her friend, thinking how sweet, pure and 
lovely her clear cut face was, and wishing in her 
inmost heart that all the world was as charitably 
disposed as Margaret. 

‘‘I suppose Eva is very happy to-day,” said Miss 
Seymour. 

“Do you really think so? ” returned Kate. “Well, 
I presume she has done what she thought best.” 

“For you, happiness will not be too easily 
attained.” 

“No, you know my motto is, ‘All or nothing.’” 
Kate spoke in a tone at once proud and tender, while 
a quick flash lighted up her brown eyes, making her 
for the moment pretty. 

“I also have a motto,” said Margaret. “ ‘Be true 
to thyself.’ ” 

“That is not enough in these days, my dear.” 

Silence followed this remark, broken, at last by a 
slight exclamation from Margaret, who had caught 
sight of a fanciful pink hat in the distance. 

“Here comes Sylvia ! ” she said. 

The wearer of the pink hat came down the aisle 
smiling mischievously, and making big eyes at the 
handsome blonde man who conducted her. 

“Do you know I hardly managed to get in,” she 
whispered breathlessly. “I arrived just after the 
bridal party; they were all arranging their dresses 
in the vestibule, and when I appeared in the doorway 


8 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


that hateful Fanny Morris exclaimed, ‘You are too 
late, Miss, you can’t go in ! ’ Eva overheard her and 
asked who it was, and when she learned it was me, 
she called Mr. Ballantine and told him to let me 
through. Eva looks beautifully,” she continued, 
“her dress is lovely.” 

“What made you so late?” interrupted Miss 
Lawrence. 

“It was my uncle’s fault; I could not get him 
started earlier; he says he hates weddings.” 

“Come, Sylvia, be quiet! They will be coming in 
a moment,” said Margaret. 

“No, they won’t,” returned Sylvia, “for Eva for- 
got her prayer book, and they had just sent a maid 
back forit as I came in. People always forget some- 
thing at a wedding. What were you two talking 
about?” 

“We were telling each other our mottoes. Mine is, 
‘All or nothing, ’while Margaret’s is, ‘Be true to thy- 
self.’” 

A mischievous smile played round the comers of 
Sylvia’s mouth.” 

“That is just like Margaret,” she said. 

“ Which would you choose ? ” 

“Neither. The first is too sad, the second too sen- 
timental.” 

“Now, Sylvia, think of some motto, summing up 
all the aspirations of a life-time,” said Miss Law- 
rence, curiously. 

“If that is all, ‘Amuse oneself; ’ what do you say 
to that, my dears? ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


9 


Kate looked amused, Margaret slightly scandal- 
ized. “Fortunately no one heard you/^ she said. 

“What harm if theyhad? retorted Sylvia. “Is it 
not what everyone does nowadays? 

At that moment the organ pealed forth the joyous 
strains of the Swedish Wedding March, the clergy- 
man and the groom and best man appearing in the 
chancel; conversation ceased, and all eyes turned 
toward the central aisle, up which the bridal proces- 
sion slowly advanced toward the altar, until Eva 
Primrose and Philip Severance at last stood before the 
clergyman who was to make them husband and wife. 

The occasion was one calculated to awaken long 
buried memories, or future hopes, and while their 
attention was ostensibly fixed on the ceremony tak- 
ing place before them, all were more or less occupied 
with their individual concerns. Kate inwardly ques- 
tioned the wisdom of her friend’s choice, and won- 
dered vaguely when she too would stand before the 
chancel rails. In Margaret’s heart there was an 
unformed prayer for Eva’s happiness, and she paid 
reverent attention to the service. Sylvia looked 
about her with undisguised and smiling interest, and 
heaved a frank sigh of relief when the benediction 
was finally pronounced, and the bride turned to leave 
the church. 

“ Areyou goingtothe reception, Kate? ” she asked, 
as the guests thronged into the aisles in the wake of 
the bridal party. 

“ Yes, it is tiresome, but the Lawrences are connec- 
tions, and mamma thinks we must go. She is to 
meet me with the carriage in Fifty-third street. It is 


10 


A COMMON MISTAELE. 


a bore to have to dress and go there; I would far 
rather stay quietly at home/’ 

“An awful bore, truly! ” exclaimed Sylvia; “to be 
obliged to don a pretty gown and go where you have 
a chance of meeting all the pleasantest people in 
town, criticising your rivals, and fascinating the 
men.” 

Miss Lawrence only smiled. 

“Did you drive here, Sylvia? ” asked Margaret. 

“No.” 

“Then come with us; we are not going to the 
reception. We can take Sylvia home, can we not, 
father?” she added, turning to an elderly man who 
had just joined them. 

Mr. Seymour signed his acquiescence. He was a 
tall, spare, grey haired man, who could have passed 
more readily as Margaret’s grandfather than her 
father, but they formed an admirable contrast; he, 
with the austere beauty of advanced age which still 
retained some vestiges of its ancient vigor, she, 
resplendent and radiant as a youthful goddess, with 
her erect, slender figure, clear blue eyes and wealth of 
golden hair. Both father and daughter had the 
steady, calm expression characteristic of the Anglo- 
Saxon race, but in the eyes of the young girl there 
was a depth and soft languor found only in the 
natives of a warmer clime. This she inherited from 
her mother. 

At thirty-nine Edward Seymour was still heart- 
whole. An intrepid traveler, his youth had been 
passed in studying Nature in her wildest moods, and 
in the oldest and most inaccessible parts of the globe. 


A COMMON Mistake. 


11 


Taking a keen interest in scientific research, and 
absorbed by the double passion for study and advent- 
ure, no thought of love had ever troubled him. 

It was during a winter spent in India that he met 
and loved a friendless girl, a governess ; and, as he 
was alone in the world, without any caste prejudices, 
he married her; two years later he was a widower. 

At first his grief drove him almost to the verge of 
insanity, but gradually his despair assumed the form 
of settled melancholy, and, when he could trace more 
distinctly in the infantile features of his daughter the 
likeness to her adored mother, there awoke within 
his heart a new love, love without desire, grief soft- 
ened by infinite tenderness. Prom that moment he 
consecrated his life to his child, who finally became 
the idol of his heart, the one tie which bound him to 
life. 

While we have been indulging in retrospection our 
friends have been slowly wending their way out of 
the church, their silence only broken by an occasional 
greeting or word with a passing acquaintance. 

On reaching the door Mr. Seymour consigned Kate 
to the care of the footman who was awaiting her, 
and, giving an arm to Sylvia and his daughter, soon 
elbowed a passage through the crowd to where his 
carriage awaited them. 

‘‘Are you not coming with us, father? Margaret 
inquired as he drew back preparatory to closing the 
carriage door. 

“No, the evening is so fine, and the distance so 
short, that I prefer to walk, and my absence will give 


12 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


you two a chance to discuss the wedding with 
perfect freedom.’^ 

‘‘I am afraid I have inconvenienced your father/' 
said Sylvia as the carriage rolled off. 

‘‘No, he always prefers walking, and will do so 
whenever he can find a reasonable excuse for leaving 
me. Well, what did you think of the wedding? " 

Sylvia settled herself comfortably in her corner of 
the brougham. “I thought of no end of things," she 
answered. “First that I should not care to marry 
as young as Eva has done, and I wondered whether 
I should ever be able ‘ to love, honor and obey ' any 
man. But most of all, I thought how glad I should 
be when I was fairly out, able to wear charming 
gowns, and try my hand at flirtation, as I saw all 
the women doing. Tell me, Margaret, do you think, 
as Kate does, that it is only the married women 
who enjoy themselves nowadays? If so," she added 
with a laugh, “I mean to get married at once, for, 
my sweet saint, I meant what I said in church, and 
I shall try to live up to my motto." 

“Sylvia dear, I think one might have a very pleas- 
ant time in life and yet not make that one's sole 
endeavor. I don't believe you quite know what you 
are saying." 

At that moment the carriage stopped in front of 
Mrs. Gilchrist's house, and Sylvia drew her furs up 
about her shoulders, preparatory to getting out. 
She paused a moment with her hand on the carriage 
door. 

“Margaret," she said, “I am older and more 
worldly wise than you think, and I understand better 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


13 


what I want than you do. I don^t intend to do 
wrong, but do mean to have a good time; and 
I don^t intend that any poet shall say of me, as 
Alfred de Musset did of the dead lady, that I had let 
fall the book in which I had not read; I intend to 
read in myhook of life. Good-night — ^thanks awfully 
for bringing me home.’’ 

‘‘Good-night. I don’t quite believe all you say. I 
would rather think you inconsequent.” 

Margaret drew the door to and the carriage drove 
away. 


CHAPTER II. 


“When I reflect how little I have done, 

And add to that how little I have seen, 

And furthermore how little I have now 

Of joy, or good, how little I have known, or been, 

I long for other life, more full, more keen,” 

— Ingclow, 


‘‘I AM answering your letter by return mail, dear 
Kate, because I do not wish you to hear of Sylvia’s 
latest exploit from any other source; she has need of 
affection and of the support of her own sex, and I 
want you to see and care for her as I do, and not be 
prejudiced by the gossips. I know that the first time 
a story is told it makes its deepest impression, and so 
I wish you to have my version of the affair. 

‘‘You know how indolent Mrs. Gilchrist is. Worn 
out in last winter’s social treadmill, and knowing 
that next season she must bring Sylvia out, and that 
she will probably have her hands full chaperoning 
and keeping her in order, she has acceded to her 
daughter’s request for full and entire liberty during 
these last months of her girlhood. So, acting up to 
the principle on which many American girls are edu- 
cated, and on the theory that away from town one 


JL COMMON MISTAKE. 


15 


may say au revoir to conventionality, Sylvia is 
allowed to ramble for hours alone about the coun- 
try. 

never go out to walk or drive without meeting 
her, either tramping across the fields in short skirts 
and sailor hat with her collie for company, or tear- 
ing madly along the roads, mounted on a horse which 
seems only half broken, and which, my father says, 
no girl ought to ride. 

‘‘No one would take her to be more than sixteen, 
with her slender figure, her hair in two pig-tails, 
boarding school fashion, and her great, wide open, 
innocent blue eyes. 

“Uncle Dan is here, and horribly shocked at his 
sister’s shortsighted indulgence, which he regards as 
a terrible infringement on established English cus- 
toms. Since Mr. Gilchrist has developed into an 
Anglomaniac I find him a terrible bore; still he 
undoubtedly knows what is the correct thing to do, 
and tries to exercise a controlling influence over both 
Sylvia and her mother. 

“In spite of his age, Dan Gilchrist likes society, and 
I fancy that he thinks escorting Sylvia an easy mode 
of gaining an entree every where, for his niece is pretty, 
an heiress, and is sure to find her way into all the 
best houses both at home and in England, if her 
mother determines to take her there as she talks of 
doing. 

“Well, to return to Sylvia, let me tell you what 
she did. As she was walking alone on the lake 
shore in the direction of the small bay, which 
is used as an anchorage for boats, and where some 


16 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


children were playing at hide-and-seek on the banks, 
she was startled by hearing a wild shriek; one of the 
youngsters, a boy of about four, had lost his balance 
and fallen into the water. He sank immediately and 
only re-appeared at some distance from the shore. 
The children and attendant nursemaids, terrified, 
ran helplessly about, screaming frantically and 
utterly unable to explain what had occurred. There 
were a number of gentlemen in the vicinity, but they 
failed to comprehend what all the excitement was 
about. Sylvia, in the meantime had torn off her 
dress, petticoats and shoes and precipitated herself 
into the lake. She swims like a fish, and she soon 
reached the drowning child, but the little fellow clung 
so convulsively to her, that, when she finally got him 
into shallow water, she herself fell back exhausted ; 
and had not some of the men, who had at last 
grasped the situation, gone to her aid, I doubt 
whether matters would have ended so well. As it is, 
our Sylvia is the heroine of the day ; the men are all 
raving over her courage, and her figure, but you 
have no idea of the gossip and ill-natured insinua- 
tions the affair has given rise to among the women. 
At the hotel hop the other evening, Sylvia had some 
difficulty in distinguishing sincere commendation 
from the sneering compliments showered upon her 
from her dearest friends. We women are so pleased 
when one of our sisterhood distinguishes herself! 
Dan, who in spite of his Chesterfieldism is a man of 
rigid conventionality, was evidently annoyed. I am 
sure he would rather the boy had drowned, while his 
niece stood on the bank wringing her hands in an 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


17 


attitudeof ladylike helplessness, than to have had her 
go boldly to the rescue, and so be made a target for 
social criticism and public approval. Sylvia still con- 
tinues to look childishly innocent, and meets praise 
and blame with the same candid smile and look of 
opened-eyed surprise; but I fear that in the bottom 
of her heart she revels in the situation. I am sure she 
acted from a purely generous impulse, but the con- 
sequences are not displeasing to her. 

‘‘I am still lonely here; more lonely than I would 
be in desolate solitude. I love the country and 
the cherished solitude which brings us into close 
communication with nature^s heart, but I don^t 
like this mixture of country freedom and town 
conventionality; there is gaiety enough here, 
but neither the amusements oifered nor the 
people interest me. Not that I dislike my fellow 
creatures; I am, as a rule, on very good terms 
with them, yet it wSeems as though I did not 
understand them, nor they me. I have no real 
affinity with them. I am not the accomplished 
woman of the world Mme. Deportment endeavored 
to make me. Brought up in a quiet home with my 
dear father as my constant companion, surrounded 
with people to whom truth and high thinking were 
a second nature, I have not yet learned to detect the 
difference between natural nobility and honesty and 
the semblance of it, and I make frequent painful mis- 
takes, and have many sad disenchantments. They 
tried to teach us to adopt unreasonable preju- 
dices and to compromise with the sacred obligations 
we owe ourselves and our neighbors. But I cannot 


18 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


bow allegiance to that creed. Do you remember 
the day Eva was married, and my telling you that 
I had a presentiment that the union would 
not turn out well ? I cannot rid myself of the 
feeling, though Eva writes from Vienna that she is 
very happy. I fear I am too given to idealizing. Mar- 
riage to me means something more than a mere union 
of interests; love must sanctify the tie, or ill is sure 
to follow, and there was something in the atmos- 
phere of the church that day which made me feel that 
that marriage would not be blessed. 

******** 

‘‘Life without love is sad. It is the absence of it 
which makes us discouraged and unhappy. Is it not 
strange that the affection and devotion of parents 
and friends cannot satisfy a woman^s heart, that we 
continually but unconsciously crave for something 
more? Why do they describe as ardent those pas- 
sions which only appeal to the senses? The soul is 
not a fire always in a blaze; our affections some- 
times smoulder. It is said that even the sun grows 
colder by degrees, and that ‘the earth shall vanish 
away like smoke ^ when warmth can no longer be 
derived from its rays ; it is the same with us ; we 
grow daily older, colder. People say I am cold, and 
yet I feel within myself such capability for loving that 
I suffer, but I cannot find an outlet in flirtation for 
the exuberance of my affections as other girls do. I 
do not know how and I do not wish to learn to play 
at love, and because of that peculiarity in me I am 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


19 


called by all the objectionable epithets usually 
bestowed on a person who will not follow with the 
crowd. 

‘ Amuse oneself! ’ When Sylvia made that profes- 
sion of faith, you smiled^ because you understood that 
the thoughtless little creature, without fully under- 
standing all she said, expressed the spirit of the 
times. Perhaps, with her way of thinking, she is 
not mistaken. To ‘amuse oneself^ in her opinion 
means the accomplishment and enjoyment of all her 
desires, but that is not enough to suit me, for often 
my desires are too indefinite for me to be able to sat- 
isfy them. I long for I know not what ; but I suffer 
all the same. I am so constituted that I cannot 
glide along with the rest of the world, taking life as 
a pleasant joke, content with many acquaintances 
but no friends. I know that the veritable cause of my 
depression is the absence of all serious purpose in my 
own life, and in the lives led by most of those around 
me. The only safeguards for women are love, genius, 
or occupation. I am without occupation, and in vain 
my soul takes its flight toward genius or love. I 
suppose you would tell me I ought to create an occu- 
pation, but it is so difficult to do anything steadily 
and earnestly when surrounded by people who have 
no sympathy with one’s pursuits, and I fear I lack 
strength to work out my salvation unaided. I feel 
unhappy, lonely, depressed, and I long for the Persuis 
who shall break my chains and carry me away to a 
life of loving usefulness.” 


CHAPTER III. 


“Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.” 

— King Henry IV. 


“ She was a phantom of delight, 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment’s ornament.” 

— Wordsworth. 


In a luxuriously appointed room, the family sitting 
room of the Gilchrist household, Mr. Daniel Gilchrist 
stood with his back to the fireplace, the tails of his 
coat carefully drawn through his arms, in true Brit- 
ish attitude. His head slightly bent forward, and 
a placid smile adorning his features. 

He was in evening dress, his grey hair was carefully 
brushed, his moustache waxed, his general appearance 
that of a well dressed, well preserved, genial old gentle- 
man. There was no trace of impatience or boredom 
on his features, for, many long years before, he had 
acquired the habit of living only for others, a habit 
easily acquired, for Uncle Dan had naturally a sweet 
and unselfish nature. 

Richard Gilchrist, his brother, had died when Sylvia 
was a little girl of eight, leaving to Daniel the guar- 
dianship of his wife and daughter, and the manage- 
inent of his large fortune. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


21 


Daniel had proven worthy of the trust reposed in 
him, the estate had been carefully administered, and 
increased in value under his judicious management. 
He had been a kindly and sagacious adviser to his 
frivolous and inconsequent sister-in-law. He had done 
his best regarding Sylvia^s training and education, 
but there he did not feel that he had been wholly suc- 
cessful ; for Mrs. Gilchrist’s wavering character, one 
moment rigidly strict with her daughter, the next 
weakly and foolishly indulgent, made Uncle Dan’s 
role of guardian an3^thing but a sinecure. This 
mother, short sighted in her indulgent good-nature, 
intrenched behind a wall of virtue which she had 
never been called upon to defend, could neither see 
nor believe the temptations and dangers to which a 
young girl is exposed in the whirlpool of modern 
fashionable life. She had provided her daughter with 
the most expensive French nurses and foreign govern- 
esses, and had secured for her the best masters, 
and Sylvia had been tossed about from one hand to 
another, acquiring a superficial knowledge of many 
things, but never receiving any moral training such 
as would have fitted her young soul for the combat 
of life. 

Mr. Gilchrist was not lacking in penetration, nor ' 
blinded by his affection for his niece, and he knew 
that although a careful education had done much to 
develop her natural intelligence,>it had not been of 
the kind to eradicate the faults and tendencies of a 
passionate and impulsive nature; a nature which 
stood in need of gentle, but firm guidance, and on 


22 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


this evening Uncle Dan’s air of calm indifference was 
more superficial than real. 

Sylvia was to make her entree into society this 
evening, and he regarded this step as one of great 
importance. He knew that this young girl, loved, 
admired and petted in her family, would not meet 
with the same unbounded indulgence at the hands of 
Mrs. Grundy, and while he had determined to accom- 
pany Sylvia everywhere, and to give her the benefit 
of his experience, yet he felt that his own knowledge 
of social life was hardly sufficient to make him a suit- 
able mentor for his niece, and he feared that Mrs. 
Gilchrist’s habitual indolence and indulgence would 
militate against his best endeavors. 

The armchair usually tenanted by Mrs. Gilchrist 
stretched out its arms invitingly, but Uncle Dan had 
his eyes fixed on the piano which stood behind it, its 
white keys gleaming in the semi-obscurity of the 
softly lighted room. He walked slowly to the instru- 
ment and closed it carefully. It often happened that 
Uncle Dan had to perform this duty after Sylvia 
had been playing. • 

‘‘How everything changes!” he thought, as he 
glanced at the sheets of music scattered about. Une 
nuit dEspagne was the title of one piece which 
attracted his eyes by its cover, and which he remem- 
bered to have heard Sylvia sing. “How everything 
changes! ” he repeated, “and is it indeed for the bet- 
ter? ” 

He thought of the old-fashioned ballads, the sweet 
old Scotch and English tunes, and harmlessly senti- 
mental ditties which girls used to sing when he was 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


23 


a young man, and, as he contrasted them with Mas- 
senet^s passionate love song, the lines on his forehead 
became more visible. 

He kept gazing into the space beyond the piano, 
and memory evoked other pianos, other music in 
severe binding, voices which used to sing sweetly if 
without so much cultivation, and a soft tumult of 
emotion, of youthful dreams and longings — an echo 
from the past — brought back the color to his cheeks, 
as if some beneficent fairy, in passing, had touched 
him with her wand and recalled the freshness of his 
youth. 

His eyes happened to fall upon a Japanese cabinet, 
and a sudden idea possessed him. Concealed in the 
recesses of the cabinet lay Sylvia’s last doll, a waxen 
beauty with rosy cheeks, wide-open, questioning 
eyes, fully developed bust and rounded arms, uncov- 
ered and polished as marble. This doll, if he could 
trust his memory, had originally held in her hand a 
mirror, and a microscopic silver box containing rice 
powder and a tiny puff. Someway Sylvia and the 
doll were vaguely confused in his mind. 

Suddenly the portiere was violently pushed aside, 
and the thread of his thoughts was broken, as Sylvia 
rushed like a whirlwind into the middle of the 
room. 

‘‘Look at me, uncle! Look, and admire! ” 

She pronounced these words with an air of triumph 
as if sure of the effect she wished to produce, and, as 
her uncle did not immediately respond, she added 
impatiently: 

“Well, do you not think me pretty? ” 


24 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


“Yes, you are beautiful.” 

“How strangely you speak ! What are you think- 
ing about?” 

Uncle Dan was thinking that the doll lying hidden 
and forgotten in the Japanese cabinet, had taught 
her lesson well, and that Sylvia even wore a certain 
resemblance to her. Nevertheless, he answered in a 
tone of mingled affection and gallantry : 

“You are looking uncommonly pretty, as you 
always do.” 

“How delightful! I think a great deal of your 
opinion, uncle mine. Oh! How I shall enjoy myself!” 
She clapped her hands with glee, held herself very 
erect for an instant, with difficulty maintaining her 
equilibrium on her exaggeratedly high heeled shoes, 
then made Dan a sweeping courtesy and fluttered 
across the room to admire herself in the long pier 
glass which stood between the windows. 

Sylvia Gilchrist had no claim to real beauty as she 
imagined herself to have. She was slight, yet her one 
greatest beauty was her figure, which was perfectly 
proportioned. The expression of her face was bright 
and intelligent, her eyes were deep blue, large, wide 
open, questioning, like the dolks. Her mouth betrayed 
a disposition to mockery, her nose was small and 
sharp, herj aw had a tendency toward squareness, and 
a phrenologistwould havejudged from it that the little 
lady had her share of obstinacy. She had very small 
ears, undisfigured by earrings, which looked like two 
little pink shells half hidden by her blonde hair. She 
was piquantCy original, fascinating, but she was not 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


25 


beautiful. Sbe possessed a remarkably clear and pen- 
etrating Yoice, sweet in speaking, brilliant when she 
sang. She had remarkably small hands and feet, and 
no end of fascinating little ways which one failed to 
observe at the first glance, but which added infinitely 
to her charm. She took short steps in walking, and 
had a childish, almost babyish demeanor. She was 
graceful, without being dignified, and undeniably 
stylish. 

As Sylvia appeared at this moment, she looked the 
incarnation of innocent girlhood, the French ideal of 
a jeune £lle innocente et pure. Dressed in white tulle, 
which fell in diaphanous folds about her slender 
figure, her fair hair, caught up in a mass of little 
curls on the top of her head, and falling in a soft, 
wavy fringe over her forehead, she had a positively 
angelic look. A tight fitting satin bodice showed to 
advantage, and even served to exaggerate the con tour 
of her figure, leaving exposed to view her shoulders 
and arms, save where a wreath of roses which served 
as garniture and sleeves dropped their snowy petals 
against her soft flesh, as though, in their modesty, 
they would screen her. 

‘‘All the same, she is becomingly dressed,’’ mur- 
mured the old gentleman; and Sylvia, seeing the 
effect she had produced, felt her spirits rise. 

“Look! ” she cried, lifting her floating drapery and 
directing his attention to her little satin slippered feet. 
“ Do n’t they look pretty ? ” 

“As little and as dainty as Cinderella’s, ’’responded 
the uncle, gallantly. 


26 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


In this mode she completed her triumph, or rather 
the rehearsal of it, for she looked forward to 
something better than the easily won admiration 
of her uncle. 

Since childhood, when arrayed in lace-frilled frocks 
and feather-laden leghorn she had been taken out to 
walk or play in the park, the words, ‘^pretty, charm- 
ing, lovely” had resounded in her ears like the pre- 
cursors of future success. And the idea that admira- 
tion and adulation were her just rights had naturally 
taken deep root in her mind. Later, she had heard 
the relative beauty, charm and success of society's 
favorites discussed and criticised. Women who were 
admired, courted, flattered, were held up to her as 
worthy of emulation, until the girks one ardent 
desire was to be a belle, to excite admiration, to 
have her name mentioned in the society columns of 
the newspapers, her dresses cited as marvels of style 
and elegance, her manner quoted, and her actions 
related. 

She was the daughter of her period, with the mixed 
blood of a plant transplanted from Heaven know’s 
where, and grafted on to an aristocratic stock. Of 
remarkable intelligence, she possessed the genius of 
both good and evil in her character, but they were 
undeveloped, and no one could tell which would 
obtain the ascendency. 

“Do you think. Uncle Dan,” she asked, coquettishly 
putting her hand under the old gentleman^s chin and 
standing on tiptoe so she could look into his eyes, 
“do you think that other men will find me as pretty 
as you do?” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


27 


“You ask too mucli, child/^ answered Mr. Gilchrist, 
laughing, “ you must wait and let events speak for 
themselves.’^ 

“Are you in good spirits to-night, uncle?” ques- 
tioned she, rubbing her head against his coat sleeve 
in kittenish fashion. 

In good spirits ! He had no reason to be so ; at 
sixty years to go to a ball is an act of self-sacrifice, 
but the assumption of an amiable contentment was 
habitual to Uncle Dan, and he answered cheerily: 

“In excellent spirits, my pet.” 

In this way Sylvia felt no remorse, but on the 
contrary believed that all that concerned her must 
necessarily interest her uncle. 

“Do you know what Margaret is to wear ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Blue crape. She looks well in blue ; it harmonizes 
with her complexion and her particular style of 
beauty. How would you describe her style of 
beauty? ” 

Uncle Dan reflected. 

“Miss Seymour’s style has a tendency toward the 
serious, which, combined with the gentleness of her 
expression, would lead one to suppose her to be 
extremely sensitive. When I look at Miss Seymour,” 
continued Mr. Gilchrist, reflectively, “I always think 
of Carlo Dolci’s Madonnas.” 

“Yes, yes, I know, the resemblance is in the eyes,” 
said Sylvia, but from the tone of her voice ’twas 
easy to see she was thinking of something else. 


28 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘^She is a friend worth cultivating/’ continued 
Uncle Dan, ^‘a young girl of superior intellect and a 
noble heart.” 

‘‘You must not forget that Margaret has been to a 
great many balls. She is four years older than I, 
and — ” Without completing the sentence, Sylvia 
crossed the room at a bound, giving an impression 
of a snowflake borne away by a gust of wind. She 
had just discovered a small bouquet of English vio- 
lets on the table. 

“I came very nearly forgetting these/’ she 
exclaimed, “and I promised to wear them.” 

She crossed to the mirror, and, studying her reflec- 
tion in the glass, strove to discover a desirable place 
on her small person on which to fasten the violets; 
trying the effect of the bouquet, first in the middle of 
her corsage, then on the side, then on the shoulder. 

“Try your belt, perhaps that will answer,” haz- 
arded Uncle Dan. 

Sylvia turned round and looked at him quiz- 
zically : 

“ What a charming old uncle ! So you are au fait 
in all these little matters, are you? ” 

She continued to look at him steadily for several 
seconds, her big blue eyes dancing with malicious 
mirth. He grew discomposed under her mocking 
gaze and began nervously pulling on his gloves. 

“Come Dan! Come Sylvia!” exclaimed Mrs. Gil- 
christ, entering the room. “It is high time we should 
go down stairs ; several people have come already, 
and I want to take a last look at the rooms while I 
have yet a moment to spare.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


29 


*‘0h! mamma, you interrupted us,’’ said Sylvia 
poutingly ; ‘‘I was just going to receive Uncle Dan’s 
confession ; I feel that he was on the point of telling 
me all about his first love.” 

Mrs. Gilchrist allowed this speech to pass without 
comment. The uncle’s complexion was considerably 
heightened; he would have liked to point out to his 
niece the impropriety of her remark, but she looked 
so radiantly happy and gay, that he had not the 
heart to disturb her tranquility. 

can mention the matter another time,” said he 
to himself. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“Time flies. The swift hours hurry by 
And speed us on to untried ways,” 

— Ella Wheeler, 


Sylvia's presentation ball was at its height, 
and Sylvia herself, radiant with delight, moved 
about the brilliantly lighted rooms without betray- 
ing the slightest trace of embarrassment. Her every 
movement was replete with self confidence; she 
showed it in her assured look, her frank smile, in the 
very manner in which she accorded a friendly shake 
of the hand in greeting her old acquaintances. 

It was with mingled feelings of disapproval and 
admiration that one looked at her pretty childish 
face and youthful figure, and witnessed the perfect 
aplomb and self-possession of which she was mistress. 
Among other surroundings her little white-clad form, 
baby face and self-confident manners might have cre- 
ated a sensation, but Mrs. Gilchrist's parlors were 
too well filled with like products of an artificial civ- 
ilization for Sylvia's peculiarities to be much 
remarked. Mrs. Gilchrist’s circle of acquaintances 
was large, but on this occasion she had carefully 
culled her calling list, only inviting those to whom 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


31 


she thought it most desirable to present her daugh- 
ter. With all her indolence, she was ambitious for 
Sylvia, she wished her to gain an entree into the best 
set, and even to passing acquaintances, of high social 
standing, she had issued an invitation. As a natural 
result, many had come to this ball whom Sylvia had 
never heard of before, for the Gilchrist fortune was 
known to be large, the Gilchrist house was handsome, 
and some of those whose acceptance had seemed 
doubtful had come, either from curiosity or because 
of marriageable sons, or other male relations, to 
whose slender possessions Sylvia’s fortune would 
make a handsome addition. 

Mrs. Gilchrist, uninteresting and alone, had cut no 
particular figure in the fashionable world, and her 
listless efforts to gain a firmer social footing had not 
met with great success, but Mrs. Gilchrist with a 
daughter, who was pretty, and an heiress, became at 
once a more important personage, and many were 
ready to do her honor to-day who yesterday had 
passed her by on the other side, and it was with a 
heart overflowing with maternal pride that she 
beheld her house filled, not only with the best of the 
circle which she habitually frequented, but by repre- 
sentatives from the Knickerbocker set, and the 
‘‘smart” set. She felt that Sylvia’s future social 
career was assured, and she was so thankful that 
she had sent her to Mme. Deportment’s school, even 
in defiance of Uncle Dan, since it was there that her 
daughter had become intimate with Kate Lawrence 
and Margaret Seymour, whose families stood high 


32 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


in the inner circle within whose sacred precincts Mrs. 
Gilchrist meant her child to penetrate. 

Sylvia was the centre of a group of friends, young, 
pretty and above all, perfectly at their ease. They 
understood perfectly the charm produced by 
uncovered shoulders, and bare arms, which they 
raised from time to time to smooth a rebellious curl, 
or readjust some ornament loosened by the violent 
exercise of dancing. Each one, without exception, 
whether stout or slender, tall or short, was decollete 
to the last degree, and the fit of their bodices, which 
forced the bust well up and forward, reminded one of 
a military uniform. 

With a practiced eye she passed in review the dif- 
ferent toilets, biting her lips with annoyance when 
she discerned ©ne that was likely to eclipse her own. 
To the men who came to speak or dance with her 
she gave but mediocre attention. After all, they 
were much the same as one meets with everywhere, 
and there was nothing particular about them to 
attract her attention; she looked at them with shy 
glances, and did not find much to say. 

There was Baron de Stolberg, who, for two years 
past, had been in quest of an American heiress whose 
dollars should pay his gambling debts, and reinstate 
him in court favor at home. Distrusted by the 
bankers, he was popular at Lenox and Newport, 
and a favorite partner for a cotillion. He had the 
foreigner’s air of gentle and reserved deference with 
young girls, but was said tobemephistophelian with 
married women. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


33 


The baron paid considerable attention to Sylvia ; 
he knew the amount of her fortune, and, as he scru- 
tinized her face and figure, listened to the sweet tones 
of her voice, and observed her easy manner, he 
decided that this young person, under his guidance, 
would make a very creditable baroness. 

The Chinese ambassador lent color to the picture, 
an officer or two broke the monotony of black coats, 
and an attache of the Argentine Republic went about 
smiling and showing his white teeth, continually 
breaking off* his conversation to apologize to some 
unlucky dancer on whose toes he had trodden. 

Who is that tall, slight young man who has just 
come in and is speaking to mamma? Sylvia asked of 
Kate Lawrence. 

‘‘Louis Britton. Did you not know that he had 
returned from Japan ? 

“Louis! exclaimed Sylvia, growing red with 
excitement. “ Oh 1 the scamp ! I had no idea he was 
here; I wonder mamma did not tell me. I think I 
must go and pull his ears for him ! “ 

A couple of girls standing near laughed and 
exchanged glances. Sylvia was certainly very eccen- 
tric. 

“We were children together,’^ continued Sylvia, 
forgetting to hold herself erect and bending forward 
to get abetter view of Mr. Britton. “How delightful 
it will be to renew our intimacy I 

“Ah! ’’said the older of the two lookers on, a 
faded girl with an adulated expression. “Ah! if we 
could keep up the friendships formed in infancy, I 


34 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


might go and seat myself on Porzic’s knee, as I used 
to do a few years ago in his Boston studio.’^ 

Several fans in the immediate neighborhood were 
simultaneously raised in an endeavor to conceal 
malicious smiles of amusement. Sylvia, however, 
suspected no malice. She was always ready to 
amuse herself, to laugh and be gay, and give full play 
to the too great vivacity of her temperament. Louis 
only recalled to her mind their childhood's sports, 
the innumerable rambles which they had taken 
together in the vicinity of her country home, as well 
as lawn tennis and croquet parties, where shouts of 
gay laughter had predominated over all else. She 
allowed her friends to talk, and draw what inference 
they chose, as yet ignorant of the wounds which 
sharp tongues can inflict, and continued to look 
steadily at the young man until the magnetism of 
her gaze at last made itself felt, when he turned and 
threaded his way through the crowd to speak to 
her. 

Sylvia, radiant, held out her hand to him and was 
on the point of exclaiming: ^‘Oh! Loui.s, how glad 
I am to seeyou! " whenhe reminded her of whatwas 
due to decorum, and of the change in their relative 
positions, by saying, in a deep, rich voice : 

‘‘How do you do. Miss Gilchrist? ” 

Sylvia darted one sharp glance at him. “Ah!" 
thought she, “we are to meet as formal acquaint- 
ances and not as old playfellows, are we ? Well, we 
shall see I " She had recovered herself instantly, and, 
with lowered eyelids and a languid air, answered his 
salutation. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


35 


“Very well, but a trifle inclined to scold you for the 
way in which j^ou neglected us; 1 hear you have been 
in town for a fortnight, yet this is the first time I 
have seen you. It is hardly civil to treat old friends 
in such a cavalier fashion.’’ 

‘‘I have been very much engaged. I assure you it 
has not been for lack of desire to call that I failed to 
do so.” 

Mr. Britton accompanied his words by a glance 
which quite disarmed Sylvia’s anger. 

‘‘Well, I will forgive you if you will promise to 
prove the truth of your assertions by future good 
conduct.” 

The orchestra played the opening bars of a 
waltz. 

“Are you engaged ? ” 

Yes; she was engaged; but she was anxious to 
get away from the group of women surrounding her, 
and calmly ignoring all previous promises, she took 
Louis’ arm and moved away. 

“I would never have believed that she would be so 
easily smitten,” charitably remarked the passe young 
lady, adding, “she probably does not know that 
Mr. Britton has already fallen into Mrs. Berrisford’s 
clutches.” 

In the meantime Britton and Sylvia, after taking a 
few turns in the crowd which filled the ballroom, had 
drifted into the conservatory, where, comfortably 
ensconced under the sheltering branches of a large 
palm tree, they conversed at their ease. 

“Do you think of returning to Japan? ” 

“Most certainly not.” 


36 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘How earnestly you make that assertion ! 

“I always mean exactly what I say.” 

“ Take care! A moment ago you said I was beau- 
tiful.” 

“I repeat it.” 

While Louis Britton was establishing his claims 
as a man of the woi'ld, and lavishing compliments on 
Sylvia, she was examining him stealthily, thinking 
how tall and handsome he had grown, what a beau- 
tiful voice he had, how strong he was, and how he 
had carried her along like a feather through the mazes 
of the dance. At one moment during the waltz, as 
his bronzed cheek almost touched hers, a wild desire 
had seized her to take his face between her two hands 
and kiss him publicly, a la frangaise. 

“Do you remember, Louis, our torchlight excursion 
through the glen ? ” 

“ How could I forget it ? ” 

“And the evening we lost our way going to Pitts- 
field, and you proposed we should pass the night in 
the fields? ” 

Britton did not remember the circumstance, but he 
saw clearly that his pretty companion intended to 
establish a new friendship on the foundations of the 
old one. 

“I remember all the incidents of those dear old days 
so well,” continued Sylvia; “ we had plucked a quan- 
tity of flowers on the way; these violets reminded me 
of them ; they were thick in the woods that day.” 

She pulled the bouquet from her belt as she spoke 
and held the flowers to her lips. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


37 


Louis looked at her smilingly. ‘‘They are very 
pretty/^ he said. 

Yielding to a sudden impulse, Sylvia offered them 
to him. “ Will you take them for old time’s sake ? ” 
she asked. 

Slightly surprised, he accepted the flovrers and 
tucked them in his waistcoat. 

Sylvia noticed his expression. “I am afraid I must 
return to the ballroom,” she said rising. “I am 
engaged for all the dances, and someone is sure to be 
looking for me.” 

They stood for a moment in the conservatory door 
watching the dancers. Suddenly Sylvia felt her com- 
panion start, and following the direction of his eyes, 
she saw that he was looking fixedly at a lady who 
stood surrounded by a little crowd of gentlemen, at 
the further end of the room. 

“Look! do you see Mrs. Feltner? What can induce 
a woman of her age to dance? She is old enough to 
be a grandmother.” 

“She is a beautiful woman,” returned Britton. 

“How? Mrs. Feltner?” 

“ I beg your pardon I I was not speaking of her.” 

“No? To whom, then, did you think I was allud- 
ing?” 

“To Miss Seymour.” 

“Oh!” 

Margaret stood near the lady on whom Mr. Brit- 
ton’s eyes were fixed, and Sylvia, noting this, bit her 
lips with vexation. Was it possible that Louis, who 
had been her constant companion when they were 


38 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


children, who had preferred her above all other play- 
mates, and never looked at any girl save herself, 
would now abandon her and find some other woman 
more beautiful, more attractive than she? Her 
pretty face hardened at the idea. She was not in 
love with Louis, not smitten, as her passe acquaint- 
ance had fancied, but she felt a certain fondness for 
him, the habit of a liking formed in early youth, and 
now that he appeared after four years of absence, 
handsome, agreeable, and a decided catch, Sylvia 
wished to regain her sway over him. With a 
woman’s innate shrewdness she felt that Louis would 
be a popular man, and she desired to inaugurate her 
season by captivating him. She resolved to ignore 
his evident preoccupation. 

‘‘Does it not seem absurd that a woman of Mrs. 
Feltner’s age should dance round dances? ” 

Mr. Britton turned his eyes to the lady in question 
and regarded her disapprovingly. 

“Yes, a woman of her age would show to better 
advantage elsewhere. I do not care much about 
women dancing, anyway; I should not like my wife 
to waltz.” 

“ Probably your wife would gladly give it up for 
your sake.” 

“I trust she would be willing to do that much 
to please me, but — women do pretty much as they 
like, I observe.” 

Mrs. Feltner, with her dark-skinned, bony shoul- 
ders, excited Sylvia’s curiosity in a powerful degree; 
she possessed an odd fascination for the girl, who 
watched her as if she had been some strange phenom- 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


39 


enon. She had always understood that elderly 
women went to balls only to chaperone their daugh- 
ters, and she felt a sudden savage anger at this 
woman with the Death’s head and unnaturally black 
hair, who had had her day, and now received the 
attention which rightly belonged to younger women. 

‘‘This is our dance, Miss Gilchrist,” said a voice in 
her ear, and Sylvia, turning, beheld a correct looking 
young man at her elbow, whose name she could not 
for her life have recalled. Britton bowed as she took 
her new partner’s arm, and Sylvia saw him turn his 
steps in the direction of the woman at whom he had 
been so intently gazing. 

Partner succeeded partner, and it was not until 
Sylvia had gone to the supper room that she beheld 
Louis again. 

She had just raised a glass of champagne to her lips 
when her eyes fell upon a mirror, so placed that it 
clearly reflected one corner of the conservatory ; she 
instantly became absorbed in the picture it revealed, 
and responded to her escort’s remarks in monosyl- 
lables. 

That gentleman turned his head once or twice in 
an effort to discern what could so interest his fair 
companion, but seeing nothing in particular, decided 
that her silence was owing to diffidence, and that 
“buds” were uninteresting. He therefore abandoned 
any further attempt at conversation and devoted 
himself to his supper. 

And Sylvia, still watching, always watching, 
looked beyond her own pretty white-robed figure so 
pleasantly reflected there, to a distant corner half 


40 


A COMMON MiS'TAKE. 


hidden by the palm trees, but which was distinctly 
visible in the mirror. She watched two people who 
occupied this shady nook. Louis Britton, with an 
enthusiasm which contrasted strongh^ with the calm 
indifference he had displayed only a few moments 
previous, was conversing with a lady, and Sylvia, 
looking at his companion, saw her smiling with that 
indefinable air of satisfaction which betrays itself on 
a woman^s face when an agreeable man makes love 
to her. 

Britton’s attitude betokened admiration; his 
expression said: ‘'I love you.” 

The woman’s lips, half mocking, half tender, 
seemed to answer: ^^Can I trust you? Men say 
these things to every pretty woman they meet.” 

Louis drew a step nearer; the lady, with seeming 
carelessness, drew the folds of her dress together and 
motioned him to take a seat beside her. They were 
very near each other now, he twisting his moustache 
as if in doubt as to how far he might venture, yet 
looking at her with passionate eyes. She, calm, 
assured, smiling faintly, waived her great, golden 
feather fan slowly to and fro in time to the distant 
music, and watched him through half closed eyelids. 
Louis’ hand, nervously grasping the back of the sofa, 
moved slowly until it touched the woman’s creamy 
shoulders; the slightest perceptible thrill passed over 
her ; she threw back her head, and, looking the young 
man straight in the eyes, murmured something; he 
started, glanced behind him, and drew back. 


A COMMON mistake. 


41 


“It is very amusing to watch Mrs. Berrisford flirt, 
she does it so artistically,’’ said a voice in Sylvia’s 
ear. “Are you taking an object lesson from her?” 

“Yes,” answered she, continuing to peer into the 
mirror. 

Mr. Ballantine looked there too, and a smile of 
amusement playing around his finely formed mouth, 
though there was no answering gleam in his grey 
eyes. 

Presently Mrs. Berrisford, who had been reclining 
indolently among the pile of cushions on the sofa, 
leaned toward Mr. Britton pointing with her fan to 
the bunch of violets which he still wore in his waist- 
coat. He did not hesitate, but, snatching the 
flowers from their resting place, crushed them 
roughly in his hand, then flung them on the ground. 
Mrs. Berrisford arose, lifted her dress a trifle, and 
brought one small foot down on the violets which 
she ground viciously under her heel. Louis took her 
hand and lifted it to his lips ; then he too arose, and 
they left the conservatory. 

“This was your dance, was it not, Mr. 
Ballantine?” said Sylvia, turning. 

“Yes; do you feel like dancing now?” 

“I should like it above all things.” 

Ballantine looked at her. “The little creature is 
plucky,” he thought. “It will be interesting to 
watch her development.” 


CHAPTER V. 


“Fire that is closest kept, bums most of all.“ 

— Shakespeare, 


Several weeks had passed since Sylvia’s debuty 
and she was now in the full enjoyment of the season’s 
gaiety. Mrs. Gilchrist’s fondest hopes seemed likely 
to be realized ; her daughter was already invited to 
many of the most select houses, and the mother 
hoped, as time wore on, all doors would be opened to 
her. 

It was rather a dreary afternoon. Mrs. Gilchrist 
had gone to a meeting of one of the many charitable 
societies of which she was a patroness ; Uncle Dan 
had not yet come in ; and Sylvia, left to her own 
devices, was feeling a trifle bored, when the drawing 
room door was thrown open and the butler 
announced: 

‘‘Mrs. Berrisford.” 

Sylvia had met Mrs. Ber:*tsford several times since 
the night of the ball, and, as gossiping tongues had 
not been idle, she knew that Louis Britton was con- 
tinually in that lady’s society. Some people said 
that he was desperately in love with her, while she 
was only playing with him. Others, that he was 
simply amusing himself, and that Mrs. Berrisford’s 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


43 


skillfully handled weapons would inflict no danger- 
j ous wound there. One thing was positive, their 
names were in everybody’s mouth, and Sylvia, with 
the mingled curiosity and obstinacy natural to her, 
longed to know just how things stood between the 
pair in order that she might the better carry out her 
original intention. 

She welcomed Mrs. Berrisford with effusion. 

‘‘Mamma is not at home, and I am afraid she will 
hardly come in before dinner time,” she said. “I am 
really glad of it, though, as I can have you all to 
myself. I am a little jealous of mamma, for when 
she is here I find myself shoved into the background. 
She always monopolizes just the very people I want 
to talk do, which is why I rejoice that, for once^ she 
is absent.” 

“You are very kind. It has not taken you long to 
learn to flatter gracefully.” 

Sylvia opened her eyes to their widest extent. “Oh, 
Mrs. Berrisford, I assure you I am always perfectly 
sincere! Mamma says my worst fault is that I 
am brutally frank.” 

Mrs. Berrisford laughed softly. “You are certainly 
bewitching,” she said. 

“It is so late you will not be going anywhere 
else this afternoon will you ? and you look a little 
tired, if you will forgive my saying so. Take off 
your gloves, make believe we are old friends, and 
come and sit by the fire and gossip with me. I have 
been so lonely this afternoon it would be areal work 
of charity to keep me company for a while. Oh, do 
stay!” she added, coaxingly. 


44 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Mrs. Berrisford laughed again. She had a peculiar 
laugh, very soft and low, like the first gurgling notes 
in the throat of a nightingale. 

‘‘Your offer is very tempting, for I am tired and 
cold. Your fire and your tea-table both look invit- 
ing, and you ask me so prettily that really I cannot 
say no.^' 

Sylvia pushed a low chair toward the hearth. Mrs. 
Berrisford sank into it and placing her feet on the 
fender gave a sigh of contentment and proceeded to 
pull off her gloves. 

“You see,” she said, “I am taking you at your 
word; I am making myself quite at home.” 

Sylvia rang for the tea, and when the butler had 
brought the tray she ordered him to bring cordials 
also. 

“Plain tea I do not consider either warming, 
refreshing or invigorating. I would just as soon 
drink hot water, and be done withit. But when it 
is brewed as I am going to brew it for you, it is a 
drink fit for the gods.” 

“ A drink fit for the gods is what I need ; nothing 
short of ambrosia or what you promise, will restore 
me to warmth and my usual equable frame of 
mind,” responded Mrs. Berrisford. 

There was a brief silence as Sylvia’s hand flitted 
about among the teacups and decanters, while her 
companion watched her lazily. 

Presently, Sylvia offered her a steaming cup. 

“Drink that,” she said ; “it has the water of life, 
two cordials, and some cherries in it. Is it not 
good ? ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


45 


Mrs. Berrisford stirred and sipped. It is delicious! 
Tell me how you mixed it.^’ 

That is my secret, madam, and I mean to keep it! 
It is a joy to knowmj^self capable of doing one thing, 
at least, better than you do.” 

‘‘I doubt not you know how to do many things 
better than I do.” 

“I shall never know how to conquer all hearts the 
way you do.” Sylvia accompanied her words with 
a look of open admiration. 

‘‘Nature made a mistake when she created you, 
Miss Gilchrist. You should have been a man. I am 
sure you would have made an adorable lover.” 

“I should have adored you,” returned Sylvia. “Do 
you know, I quite lost my heart to you the night 
of my ball?” 

“That was very good of you.” 

“No, it wasn’t. I couldn’t help it! But I don’t 
suppose you care a bit for my admiration.” 

“ Indeed I do,” answered Mrs. Berrisford, “it is a 
thing I rarely receive— from women.” 

“Well, mine has the merit of being sincere, at least. 
And it has another merit, too, and an uncommon one; 
it asks for nothing in return.” 

Sylvia spoke these last words so meaningly that 
Mrs. Berrisford glanced at her sharply. 

“ Where did you learn so much worldliness ?” she 
asked. 

“I was born that way; I feel things.” . 

“I wish I had been so gifted,” answered Mrs. 
Berrisford in a voice slightly tinged with sadness. 
“My knowledge of men’s selfishness has been instilled 


46 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


into me by the most severe of all teachers— expe- 
rience.’’ 

‘‘lam afraid you teach after Mme. Experience’s 
methods,” said Sylvia daringly. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“People say that you are the most fascinating and 
most dangerous woman in New York, and that if a 
man has you for his mistress he never forgets the les- 
son you teach him.” 

Mrs. Berrisford flushed under her dark skin, and a 
sudden angry light flashed up in her eyes. 

“I never take the trouble to teach at all,” she said 
slowly, “but I think if I tried I could administer a 
sharp lesson.” 

“Oh! I wish you would teach me,” interrupted 
Sylvia. “Teach me to be as charming, and as gra- 
cious as you are. I would give anything to be able 
to say and do the right thing at the right moment, 
as Louis says you always do.” 

“Louis?” said Mrs. Berrisford, questioningly. 

“Yes, Mr. Britton. I always call him Louis, for we 
grew up as children together. Mamma says it is a 
very bad habit, but I can never think of him as 
anything but the rough, good-natured boy I used to 
play with, and I can’t say Mr. Britton for the life of 
me.” 

“That is quite natural, I think,” said Mrs. Berris- 
ford, “for he is only a boy.” 

“He is twenty-five I ” 

“A man of twenty-five, my dear, is just a small boy 
to awoman of thirty,” returned Mrs. Berrisford. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


47 


“It would hurt his pride dreadfully if he heard you 
say that/^ 

“Oh! no, I do n^t think so. He is a very sensible 
fellow, as sensible as he is charming, and he knows 
quite well what I think of him. I speak to him as 
openly as I would to my own brother. 

“So do I! cried Sylvia. “That is why I am so 
fond of him. I know I can trust him implicitly, 
and say anything I choose to him ; only unfortu- 
nately, Ido n^t see very much of him. He is like a real 
brother in that respect — rarely in his sister ^s society.^’ 

“He makes a great mistake,’’ returned Mrs. Berris- 
ford, “but one very common to men; they frequently 
neglect the affection freely offered them while seeking 
for that which can never be theirs.” 

“Oh, well, I don’t blame anyone for preferring the 
unknown, the novel, the dangerous, to something 
with which they are perfectly familiar,” returned 
Sylvia. “The society of a young and ignorant girl 
w^hom one has known from childhood, every corner 
of whose mind you are familiar with, whose thoughts 
you can read like an open book, is naturally far less 
attractive than that of an accomplished and fasci- 
nating woman of the world.” 

“Every age has its charms, and every woman her 
admirers,” said Mrs. Berrisford rising. “I am really 
indebted to you, my dear; you have given me a 
delicious cup of tea, and the most amusing half hour 
I have spent for an age.” 

“I am glad you find me amusing, ’’answered Sylvia, 
gaily; “for you have been so long in society that 


48 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


you must be more easily bored tban amused. I shall 
accept it as a good omen.’^ 

As soon as the door closed behind her visitor, 
Sylvia ran to the mirror and surveyed herself criti- 
cally. 

‘‘I am not so beautiful as she is,” she mut- 
tered, ‘^andldonot know as much of the world, 
but I am younger, fresher; Louis cannot be very 
desperately in love with a woman who is six or eight 
years older than he, and married. He is only fasci- 
nated with her because she is so clever. Courage, 
Sylvia, you may win yet ! ” 

Mrs. Berrisford drove immediately home. She 
lived in Fiftieth street, in a beautiful little house, so 
perfect in all its appointments that ill-natured 
people said it was wonderful how its mistress, who 
was not wealthy, managed to keep it up. 

‘‘Has any one called? ” she asked of the maid who 
opened the door. 

“Yes, ma^m, Mr. Britton is waiting in the drawing 
room.” 

Mrs. Berrisford handed her fur lined cloak to the 
maid. 

“ Tell Annie to give Elise her supper in the nursery. 
She need not come down to-night. Mr. Britton will 
dine with me. You can serve us in half an hour.” 
She turned to enter the drawing room ; then, stop- 
ping, she added: 

“If any one calls, say I am dining out.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


“She totiches my cheek, and I qtiiver — 

I tremble with exquisite pains; 

She sighs like an over-charged river, 

My blood rushes on through my veins.” 

Wheeler 


The room into which Mrs. Berrisford entered was 
a long, narrow apartment divided at about half way 
its length by heavy portieres. The upper part where 
she stood was dimly lighted, while the lower half, 
beyond the curtains, was aglow with firelight, and 
lamps burning softly under rose- colored shades. She 
stood quietly for some minutes watching the man 
who awaited her coming, and who was plainly 
visible in the bright light. Her eyebrows contracted 
painfully as she looked at him, aud the cardcase she 
held in her hand uttered a faint creak of protest as 
she crushed it in her long nervous fingers. 

‘‘Fool that I am! ” vshe thought, “I am growing 
fond of him, and the sincerity of his affection 
awakens an answering chord in my heart. I have 
half a mind to let him go! But no, why should I? 
He pleases and entertains me; I like him, and he is 
useful. Bah! it^s too late to be over scrupulous 
now ! 


49 


50 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘Louis!” she said softly, advancing into the 
light. 

“At last!” exclaimed the young man, springing 
up and going to meet her. “I thought you would 
never come.” 

“ Have you been waiting long? ” 

“Not counting by the clock, but ages guaged by' 
my impatience.” 

“You must stop to dinner, and we shall have a 
nice long evening together.” 

“ Where is Berrisford ? ” 

“How should I know? ” wearily. “He never tells 
me what his plans are. He simply telephoned that 
he should not be home to dinner, and when he does 
come — well, I shall not see him ! ” 

She had crossed the room while speaking, taken off 
her hat and gloves and tossed them on a table. 

“I am too tired todress fordinner,” she said, “you 
must take me as I am, and make believe it is one of 
those informal Bohemian meals we used to enjoy 
together in Paris.” 

“Youare always lovely, always perfect in my eyes,” 
responded the young man warmly, “and you know 
that I am only too happy to be with you under any 
circumstances, so why apologize?” He bent over 
her and tried to kiss her. 

Mrs. Berrisford pushed him aside. “Be careful. 
Ellen may come in to announce dinner at any 
moment.” 

Mr. Britton sighed, and with the air of a man who 
feels himself ill-used, threw himself into an adjacent 
chair. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


51 


Where have you been to-day ? he asked. 

“To a lot of places, among others to Mrs. Gil- 
christ^s, where I saw the friend of your boyhood.’’ 

“Sylvia?” 

“Yes ; do you know that she is remarkably pretty? 
and, I fancy, remarkably astute as well.” 

Mrs. Berrisford never disparaged other women ; 
she did not need to. 

“I had not noticed Sylvia’s good looks. She is too 
small for my taste, and I don’t admire blondes. As 
to her astuteness, she was always a sharp little 
thing, but awfully good-hearted.” 

Mrs. Berrisford was silent; perhaps she doubted 
Miss Gilchrist’s good-heartedness. After a moment 
she continued : 

“She is rich, clever, pretty, and I am sure, fond of 
you. Louis, why do you not renew the intimacy of 
former years? ” 

“You know why I do not.” 

“That is nonsense ! ” 

“Possibly. Suppose we do n’t discuss it ! ” 

Silence fell on the room after this. Mrs. Berris- 
ford, looking into the fire, seemed engaged in an 
inward struggle, for the lines round her mouth deep- 
ened and her beautiful eyes assumed a hard look. 
She was so absorbed that she started visibly when 
the maid announced dinner, and it seemed to require 
an effort to shake off her thoughts. 

The dinner was good, and under its soothing influ- 
ence Mr. Britton recovered his serenity, but his 
hostess remained distraite and preoecupied. When 
they had returned to the drawing-room^ when Ellen 


52 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


had taken away the coffee service, and there was no 
danger of further interruption or intrusion, Louis 
crossed the room to her side, took her hand and asked 
tenderly : 

“What is troubling you? Tell me; a trouble shared 
is half cured, and you are sure of my sympathy under 
all circumstances.” 

His frank, handsome face was very tender as he 
spoke, and passionate love for the women before 
him shone in his eyes. 

“It is nothing; at least nothing I can tell you.” 

“Secrets!” half laughing, half reproachfully. “I 
thought you promised to confide in my affection.” 

“Yes, yes, I do trust you; your friendship is my 
greatest comfort and support ; but there are some 
things one cannot say. I was foolish to let you see 
that anything worried me; I assure you it is noth- 
ing serious. Let us talk of something else.” She 
turned her head as she spoke and rested it against 
his arm. 

“Is it some new deviltry of Paul’s? ” he insisted. 

“No.” 

“Is Elise ill?” 

“No. Don’t tease me, Louis, and don’t try guess- 
ing; it is useless.” 

“Won’tyou even tell me if I am hot or cold?” said 
he, laughing. 

“No,” she answered, with a half sigh, “I shall tell 
you nothing.” 

“Then, O most obstinate of women, play for 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


53 


Mrs. Berrisford went to the piano and began play- 
ing. She played superbly, and for a long time Louis 
sat entranced as the piano laughed, sang, or wept, 
under her skillful fingers ; then, as the music grew 
sadder and sadder, he felt drawn to the musician^s 
side. He rose to go to her, but in doing so he hit the 
little table on which Mrs. Berrisford ’s hat, gloves 
and cardcase still lay, and swept everything to the 
floor. As he bent to pick them up his eye fell on a 
letter which had dropped from the card case 'and lay 
half open on the carpet ; it bore the address of a 
fashionable dress-maker, and the beginning of what 
appeared like a long column of figures was distinctly 
visible. Mr. Britton picked the paper up and crum- 
pled it together in his hand. He went on to the 
piano and stood leaning against it watching the 
player’s face ; then, as the music ceased, he stooped, 
and laying the letter on the keyboard asked : 

^‘Florence, is this what troubles you? ” 

Mrs. Berrisford grew crimson. She snatched the 
paper up and thrust it into her dress. 

“How dare you ? ” she said. 

“Tell me; I insist on an answer.’^ 

“Well, then, yes.” 

“My dearest, my darling, why will you be so fool- 
ish when you know that everything I have in the 
world is at your command ? Give me back that bill, 
and think no more about it.” 

“Never! You mean kindly, Louis, I know, but I 
cannot do it. I could never repay you.” 

“Your love will repay me a thousand fold.” 

“Impossible.” 


54 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


She rose and closed the piano. ‘‘It is late/’ she 
said coldly, “you must go.” 

Mr. Britton looked at her sharply. 

“Florence,” he said, “your voice trembles; you 
will cry when I have gone.” 

Mrs. Berrisford did not answer, but tumbled 
rather than sank onto the sofa, covering her face 
with her hands. He went and sat down beside her. 

“Florence,” he said gently, “you are very foolish 
to worry and distress yourself over a thing which a 
friend can so easily set right. You know that I love 
you better than my life; that if it were possible I 
would gladly make you my wife; that for me there is, 
there never can be, any woman in the world but you. 
Why then do you refuse to accept from my hands 
what you need, what you would accept from a 
brother who would not love you half so fondly? Do 
you doubt my love? ” 

Mrs. Berrisford shook her head. 

Louis put his arm around her and drew herto him. 

“Prove it,” he said, “by doing as I wish.” 

“I can never repay you.” 

“You know that you can.” 

“How?” her voice sank to a whisper. 

He kissed her passionately, and murmured some- 
thing in her ear. Mrs. Berrisford lay motionless and 
impassive in his embrace for some minutes; then, as 
his arms relaxed, she lifted her head and looked at 
him steadily, sighed deeply, then slowly raised her 
face to his, and their lips met in a long, lingering 
kiss. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“I would a round, unvarnislied tale deliver/' 

— Othello. 


“Tell me, Sylvia, have you enjoyed society as 
much as you anticipated ? 

It was Kate Lawrence who asked the question. 
The two girls were seated in Sylvia’s own room, 
lounging and chatting on the morning of Ash- 
Wednesday. They had both been to a ball on the 
night previous, the last one of the season, and that 
morning they had been to church like the well com 
ducted young women they were, called themselves 
miserable sinners and metaphorically beaten their 
breasts and heaped ashes on their heads. They felt 
they had done their whole duty as women, and now 
they were prepared to enjoy a comfortable lounge 
and an exchange of confidences. 

Sylvia looked worn and tired ; there were blueish 
circles under her childlike eyes and her brilliant color 
had perceptibly faded. She looked more than ever 
like a fragile bisque figure. She yawned and stretched 
herself like a drowsy kitten before answering her 
friend’s question. 


55 


56 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘To tell you the truth, Kate, I don^tfind society 
all that my fancy pictured. 

“Why?^’ 

“Now, you want me to go into particulars, and I 
am not sure that I can. Do you know?” she said, 
suddenly sitting bolt upright in her chair and speak- 
ing with great energy, “that when you and Mr. 
Ballantine begin questioning me regarding my 
impressions and sensations I feel somehow as if I 
were being dissected.” 

“What nonsense! ” 

“Not nonsense at all. You are as sharp as gimlets, 
both of you; you go boring and screwing into peo- 
ple, trying to get at their true inwardness in a man- 
ner which is perfectly awful. If you wanted to cut 
up things, examine, classify, and vivisect, why didn’t 
you go in for surgery and scientific research ? ” 

“I wish I had gone in for surgery,” returned Miss 
Lawrence; “that would have been hard work, at 
least, and infinitely more satisfying than my present 
occupation.” 

“Oh! nasty, bloody legs and arms, and horrible 
wounds ! How can you talk of such dreadful things, 
Kate. It makes me sick even to think of it.” 

Sylvia shuddered. 

“Tell me your impressions. I am truly not desir- 
ous of dissecting you, but you are so original, and 
you started in with such bright anticipations that I 
can’t help being curious to learn your conclusions.” 

Sylvia still demurred. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


57 


Come on, Sylvia, you know I am really fond of 
you, and that I am not simply actuated by a mean 
and prying spirit/’ 

‘‘Perhaps Ballantine is n’t either,” observed Sylvia, 
dryly. 

“I can’t answer for him. He is a lawyer, and they 
are a prying set, but I can assure you that there is 
no need of being on your guard with me.” 

“Well, then,” with a deep sigh, “I am disap- 
pointed.” 

“In what way ? ” 

“I have not received half as much attention as I 
anticipated, and the men who have been attentive 
were not the ones I wanted. They were either callow 
3"Outh who didn’t dare address older women and 
whose brains lie entirely in their heels, or adventur- 
ers like Baron Von Stolberg in search of an American 
heiress. The older, cleverer men have left me alone; 
they seem to prefer married women, and we girls 
have no chance.” 

Kate laughed. 

“The married women are formidable adversaries.” 

“I think it’s a mean shame! When a woman 
Ims married the man she loves and has a baby or 
two at home she has no business running about 
to balls and monopolizing the attention of the 
nicest men.” 

“It seems to me,” remarked Kate, “that the 
nicest men don’t go to balls any more. There’s 
a dearth of really agreeable men in society; they 
prefer their clubs, and perhaps another faction of 
society.” 


58 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


^‘Well, the men who do go out,*’ said Sylvia 
crossly, ''don’t devote themselves to girls. I don’t 
understand it.” 

"Don’t you?” 

"No, I don’t! Now, there is Mrs. Berrisford; she 
is handsome, of course, — I must admit that, — and 
clever; still she is not young, and I don’t see what 
there is about her to attract men so.” 

"Mrs. Berrisford is not only beautiful,” said Kate, 
"she is something far worse.” 

" What do you mean ? ” 

"I mean that she is possessed of an subtle fascina- 
tion. There is a caress in her very look, and she seems 
to exhale a perfume which attracts all men to her.” 

"Yes, she does. She even infatuates me when I am 
with her; she makes me feel as if I would like to touch 
her.” 

"I fancy that is about the impression she generally 
creates.” 

" I wish I knew how she manages it I ” 

"Particularly with Louis? ” 

As Sylvia did not respond, Kate looked at her 
inquiringly. She seemed on the point of saying some- 
thing, but did not. After a moment Sylvia con- 
tinued: 

"No, society is not what I thoughtit would be; I feel 
myself, when I am out, rather neglected and ennuyee. 
It is humiliating, and it is all the fault of the mar- 
ried women; they keep the men away from us.” 

"There are others of a different kind who keep them 
away from us, also,” said Kate deliberately, watch- 
ing to see what effect her words would produce. 


A COMMON MISTAKE, 


59 


‘‘Yes? who?’^ 

“Oh, others.^’ 

“Married, too?'’ 

Jamais de la vie ! ” 

Silence followed this observation ; each girl was 
absorbed with her own reflections. Sylvia thought 
about the “others; ” then her thoughts drifted back 
to Mrs. Berrisford. The woman had an indefinable 
fascination for her. 

“Well, admitting the ‘others,’ I still can’t under- 
stand what makes the reputable wives so attractive.” 

“Well, I will tell you,” said Kate. “I might as 
well tell you as anyone else; better, perhaps, because 
I am really fond of you, and I don’t think ignorance 
is always bliss for a girl.” 

“No, indeed; forewarned is forearmed,” said 
Sylvia. “If I knew what weapons married women 
use, I should know how to combat them.” 

“You can never combat them, my poor Sylvia; 
not while you retain your maiden name and — ^your 
innocence.” 

“Do you mean — ? ” began Sylvia. 

“I mean,” answered Kate, coolly, “that the man 
of to-day, if he is not old and enormously rich, or a 
fortune-hunter, is not on matrimony bent. He can- 
not show marked attention to a young girl without 
compromising himself and her, yet he likes ladies’ 
society, and he can enjoy it in safety with married 
women. Then, men say things to matrons that they 
can’t say to maids.” 

“Yes, I can understand that, but I don’t see how 
they can fall in love with them, or why the women 


60 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


strive to make them do so; they have their husbands’ 
affection ; I should think that is enough.” 

‘^Now, Sylvia! You need not pretend to believe 
that all marriages are made for love. You know 
that many of them are contracted for far different 
reasons, and then, what is there to hold a woman’s 
faith, particularly in cases like Florence Berrisford’s, 
where marriage did not bring what she had bar- 
gained for?” 

“ What did she bargain for ? ” 

> ‘‘Money. The Arbuthnots were poor. Mr. 
Berrisford was rich, good-looking, reputed generous 
and kind-hearted. Within two years after their 
marriage he lost every penny he possessed. His pro- 
fession has not proved lucrative, perhaps because he 
is not a man of brilliant parts, possibly because he 
does not work very hard.” 

“But their house? They live well, she dresses 
beautifully, goes everywhere ; all that takes money. 
How do they manage? ” 

Kate hesitated. 

“You had better ask some one else.” 

“No, you have begun, you shall tell me all you 
know.” 

“I only know what rumor says; there is nothing 
proven. Mrs. Berrisford is charming, is received 
everywhere; her husband and she are on the best 
possible terms.” 

“Speak out, Kate, I hate enigmas. Tell me how 
they live.” 

“Ask Mr. Britton.” 

“Kate Lawrence, do you mean — ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


61 . 

mean that ill-natured people say — ’’ 

“That she is ! cried Sylvia, paling, and trem- 

bling with suppressed excitement. 

“Such is public opinion. You see, Sylvia, you can- 
not enter the lists against married women. 

“No!^^ 


CHAPTER VIII. 


i 


“ For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that 
edge, incrcaseth sorrow. 


ncrcaseth knowl- ' 
— Bcclesiastes. 


Sylyia thought long and deeply over Kate’s reve- 
lations. Owing to the Lenten season there were few 
entertainments and little to distract or amuse her. 
Mrs. Gilchrist had a bad cold which confined her to 
the house, and she demanded her daughter’s constant 
company and attention, but, being weak and 
drowsy, she would lie for hours dozing on her sofa, 
content if her darling was in the room, while Sylvia, 
her book on her knees, would sit thinking, thinking, 
thinking. 

She was amazed, astounded, at what she had 
learned. She had known that there were women in 
the world whose lives were shameful, whose caresses 
and transitory affection could be bought, but her 
knowledge had been vague; those creatures were 
outside the pale of society — under a ban; one 
acknowledged their existence, but thought no more 
about them. But the state of things Kate told of 
was different; that was wrong-doing going on in 
our midst — in the sacred precincts of society’s upper 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


63 


strata. She felt a vague sense of humiliation that 
she should have had to be told these things. Her 
faith in her own shrewdness was weakened. She 
wondered if other girls had seen more clearly, and 
whether she was blinder and more innocent than the 
rest. 

Even yet she could hardly believe that society was 
so corrupt. She had always understood that a 
woman who broke the seventh commandment was 
a wicked and abandoned creature, who was ostra- 
cized the moment her guilt was known. And that 
one who was generally suspected of unfaithfulness 
should be received everywhere and treated with 
marked respect and consideration, was quite beyond 
her comprehension. 

She reasoned that, if the tales told about Mrs. 
Berrisford were true, they must be true about others 
also. She could not be the one sole sinner; other- 
wise her guilt would not be overlooked. Sylvia was 
shrewd enough to understand that custom alone 
could have made society callous. 

Another thing surprised her ; from earliest girlhood 
she had been taught that the woman who yielded 
the slightest favor to her lover ran the risk of losing 
his love, and now it seemed as if, on the contrary, it 
was by granting favors that a woman could hold 
him. She had been taught, too, that boldness of 
speech was in very bad form, and now Kate said that 
men liked married women because they could sp^ak 
more freely to them. What did they say? 

She remembered things she had said to Louis about 
Mrs. Berrisford; she remembered her conversation 


64 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


with that lady, and she wondered whether they had 
taken her for a fool or a knave. 

Questions rose thick and fast in her mind. She 
wished she could see Kate again; but Kate had gone 
to St. Augustine, and there was no chance of her 
coming back until after Easter. She decided to ques- 
tion her mother and essayed to do so, but as soon as 
Mrs. Gilchrist perceived the drift of her daughter’s 
questions, she held up her hands in holy horror. Such 
curiosity on the part of a young girl was shocking. 
Mrs. Gilchrist wanted to know who had put such 
ideas into her daughter’s head, accused her of having 
read some pernicious French novel, and absolutely 
forbade her indulging in any more literature of that 
class. She assured Sylvia, and with perfect honesty, 
that the state of affairs which was depicted by nov- 
elists like Bflot, De Maupassant and Tolstoi was 
absolutely unknown in America, and commanded her 
never to mention the subject again. 

Mrs. Gilchrist overshot the mark. Sylvia had not 
read Anna Karenina, nor the works of the other 
authors alluded to, but she resolved on the first 
opportunity she would do so. 

One night, when she and Uncle Dan had returned 
from the horse show at the Madison Square Gar- 
dens, where Mr. Britton’s hunterhad done some very 
remarkable leaping, and his master’s attentions to 
Mrs. Berrisford had been more than usually marked, 
Sylvia attempted to gain some information from the 
old gentleman on the subject now always uppermost 
in her mind. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


65 


‘^Uncle/’ she said, ‘‘do you know Mr. Berrisford 
well?” 

“Oh, yes, and I knew his father before him. Very 
good family, the Berrisfords.” 

“What sort of a man is he? ” 

“A nice, pleasant, good-hearted fellow; not over 
clever, but a good fellow.” 

“Is he rich?” 

“Rich? Well, no, I should say not.” 

“But they live handsomely. It must cost a great 
deal to entertain as Mrs. Berrisford does, and dress 
as perfectly.” 

“Well, well! ” said the old man a trifle testily, “I 
don’t know the extent of their income.” 

“Do 3^ou think Mrs. Berrisford handsome, uncle?” 

“Very. There are no two ways about that.” 

“People say she is a great flirt.” 

“She is doubtless very much admired, and, as she 
is young, handsome, and agreeable, it is not strange 
she should appear so.” 

“Young! Do you call Mrs. Berrisford young, 
uncle? Why, she must be at least thirty-three.” 

The old gentleman laughed heartily. 

“I suppose to you, Sylvia, she seems like a female 
Methusala, but, mydear little girl, a woman of thirty 
— and Mrs. Berrisford is not more than that — is in her 
prime. Her figure is just fully developed, and she has 
the usages of the world at her fingers’ ends; in short, 
she has reached the age of perfection. She is mature 
without being over-ripe; has lost all the angles of 
youth — ” the old man stopped suddenly. “When you 
are her age, my dear, you will not think you are old ; 


66 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


you will feel that you have just reached the point 
where you can begin to enjoy and appreciate life.” 

‘‘She is dreadfully talked about,” hazarded Sylvia. 

“People talk a great deal too much,” replied Uncle 
Dan. “Sylvia, my girl, take your old uncle’s advice ; 
don’t listen to stories about your neighbors, and 
don’t meddle in their affairs. You will find out, as 
you grow older, that it will take all your ability to 
manage your own.” 

“I do n’t wish to meddle in Mrs. Berrisford’s affairs. 
Uncle Dan, but what I do wish to know is, why 
married women absorb so much attention, and why 
they are still received, courted and flattered, when 
they are accused of such laxity of conduct? ” 

Mr. Gilchrist hesitated ; he knew the gossip of the 
clubs, and he saw where Sylvia’s remarks were tend- 
ing, but he did not feel competent to discuss such 
questions with a young girl. He did not know how 
to explain and account to her for a condition of 
society which alarmed and disgusted him. He felt 
helpless before Sylvia’s frank, questioning gaze. 

“My dear,” he said, “as I remarked before, people 
talk a great deal too much. Mrs. Berrisford is a 
beautiful and attractive woman; she naturally has 
her enemies, who are malicious enough to traduce 
her good name. Do not you believe them, or be of 
their number.” 

He patted Sylvia’s head tenderly. 

“You do what’s right, my pet, and do not seek to 
pry into other people’s affairs or regulate other 
people’s consciences; above all don’t listen to and 
don’t believe all the idle gossip you hear.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


67 


Sylvia sighed, and, rising, kissed her uncle good- 
night. It was evident she would obtain no satis- 
faction from him. She knew Kate thoroughly, and 
knew that she did not lie. Since she had told her 
that society was corrupt, it must be so, and a thou- 
sand things — chance words, and significant glances, 
which at the moment had made no impression — now 
rushed over her with overwhelming force in incontro- 
vertible proof of Kate^s assertions. 

Why was it that neither her mother nor uncle, those 
to whom she might naturally look for enlighten- 
ment, would not help her? She resolved to try 
Margaret; and on the first opportunity, when she 
was spending an afternoon at her friend’s house, she 
opened her heart to Miss Seymour and told her all 
she had heard, ending her recital with: 

‘‘Oh, Margaret ! do you suppose it is true ? 

Margaret’s madonna-like face became overcast. 

“I am sorry Kate talked to you so freely, ’’she said ; 
“it was time enough for you to have learned all this 
later on. It was cruel to destroy your illusions.” 

“Then it is true ! ” cried Sylvia. 

“I am afraid that a good deal of it is true,” 
answered Margaret gently. “There seems to be no 
doubt that society has become very lax in its morals ; 
but you must not believe, dear, that all married 
women are perverted, even when they receive a great 
deal of attention. There are many pure, loving and 
devoted wives among them, who command the 
honest admiration and respect of the men who fre- 
quent their society. There are many noble, high- 
principled men whose sense of honor is strong and 


68 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


untainted, who would not breathe a word of love 
where they had not an undoubted right to do so. 
The world is not all bad, but sometimes I am afraid 
that the class in which we move is worse than 
those beneath us socially, and that it is only in our 
set that compromises are made with right and 
wrong. 

“Then what becomes of all our old creeds? Where 
are the laws we were taught to believe in ? What 
has become of the sanctity of marriage? ” 

“The sanctity of marriage still exists, Sylvia, 
and every right-feeling man and woman believes 
in it.^’ 

“Then why does society condone or tacitly ignore 
the rupture of its own moral requirements ? ” 

“Sylvia did you ever hear of a verdict frequently 
rendered by Scotch juries — ‘not proven’? That is 
the case in many instances. People are accused, 
either rightfully or wrongfully, of having broken 
their marriage vows, of having tampered with honor, 
but there is no proof, and, until their guilt is estab- 
lished beyond question, until conventionality has 
been too grossly outraged, no one cares to step for- 
ward as accuser.” 

Miss Gilchrist sat in thoughtful silence for a few 
moments, and then broke out excitedly : 

“Well, Margaret, you have explained to me why 
such a state of things is tolerated. I begin to under- 
stand that the most important of all the command- 
ments is the eleventh, but it docs not solve one prob- 
lem : How are we girls to hold our own against the 
married women ? ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


69 


‘‘I can’t answer that question, Sylvia, for I never 
thought about it, and it does not particularly inter- 
est me.” 

“Don’t you want to have a good time, Mar- 
garet ? ” 

“Yes, but I am not ambitious for social triumphs. 
I found out some time ago that society could not fill 
my life, that my truest happiness was in my own 
home, among a limited circle of friends, and not 
among a throng of mere acquaintances.” 

“I love you dearly, Meg, and I always feel better 
and stronger when I have been with you; yet the 
same things do not satisfy me. I do like society. I 
like the admiration of men, and I mean to have it.” 

Miss Seymour looked grieved. 

“Take care, darling,” she said; “don’t struggle 
after social success. Believe me, it is not the most 
desirable of all things. The best things in a woman’s 
life are the simple and the natural ones, wifehood 
and motherhood. Don’t seek for admiration ; some- 
where in the world there is a man who will love 
you; wait for him.” 

“That’s all very pretty, Margaret, but how do I 
know that I should love him? I should not have the 
confidence to take him when he came, unless I had 
experimented with others and was sure of what I 
wanted.” 

“You are an incorrigible flirt. I wash my hands 
of you.” 

Sylvia went and leaned over the back of Miss 
Seymour’s chair, put her arms around her neck and 
kissed her warmly. 


70 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘Wash your hands of me if you like, Meg, you can 
never be held responsible for my misdoing ; but keep 
on loving me, and when I have done anything very 
wicked I will come to you to confess. You can exhort 
me, and perhaps you will end by saving my soul.’’ 

“I do love you, Sylvia, dearly. I can’t help it, and 
I shall not try, but it grieves me to see you bent 
solely on amusing yourself. I am afraid for you, 
dear. Something tells me that, if you keep on striv- 
ing for the things you claim you want the most, you 
will create for yourself many a heartache.” 

“Well, when it aches I will come to you, and you 
can pour balm on my wounded spirit.” 

Sylvia spoke lightly, but Margaret’s face was 
grave, and there were tears in her eyes. She took 
Sylvia’s hands in her own and looked steadily into 
her friend’s face. 

“You can count on me, Sylvia; I do not give my 
friendship lightly, and, whatever happens, I will stand 
your friend.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


"Where Is the man who hath not tried 
How mirth can into folly glide ? " 

— Anon. 


It was a hot August day, and the beach at Nar- 
ragansett Pier was ablaze in the morning sunshine 
and alive with people. Humanity in every variety of 
was represented there; women in becoming 
but scanty bathing dresses were continually coming 
and going between the bath houses and the surf ; 
men in abbreviated costumes lay at full length bask- 
ingin the sun; women who did not bathe, in fetching 
seaside costumes were lolling about on the beach, 
and indulging in open flirtation behind the screen of 
their big parasols, or indulging in malicious criticism 
of their sisters who did bathe. Groups of joyous 
children were digging in the sands and building frail 
fortifications which, a little later the incoming tide 
swept away as relentlessly as time sweeps away our 
illusions. 

A confused murmur of voices arose from the sea 
— questions borne away on the wind, long sustained 
calls, shouts of delight and exclamations of triumph 
as some wave bigger than its fellows is successfully 


72 


A COMMON UlSTAKn. 


breasted. Strong arms and brawny shoulders alter- 
nately appear and disappear in the dancing waves, 
while graceful forms bravely float on the shimmering 
waters, their faces turned heavenward. 

‘‘Who is that girl out in that boat? 

“I can^t make out.^^ 

“Let’s swim out to the float and see.^^ 

“Come on!” 

The foregoing dialogue took place in the surf 
between a young Harvard man, a perfect Hercules in 
appearance, and Louis Britton. As they finished 
speaking they struck out boldly for the craft, and 
were soon able to scan the boat and its occupants 
from that point of vantage. 

“Why, those people are Miss Gilchrist and the 
Vicomte dc Blonettc,” exclaimed the Harvard man. 

“Who is the Vicomte de Blonette? ” 

“Oh, a French swell who only arrived a little 
while ago, and who, they say, is madly in love with 
the heiress.” 

Britton frowned. He was annoyed that Mrs. 
Gilchrist should have permitted Sylvia to do any- 
thing so unconventional as to go sailing with this 
young foreigner. 

“Sylvia is very pretty,” continued Hercules, “but 
she is too rapid for my taste.” 

“I don’t consider Miss Gilchrist rapid,” answered 
Britton coldly, “although I admit that, for the 
moment, appearances are against her. She is very 
young, and hermother, who is not a worldly woman, 
allows her too much latitude.” 


A common mistake. 


73 


‘‘Well, a girl who takes so much latitude is rapid^ 
isn’t she?” 

“If she makes herself conspicuous intentionally, 
yes ; but in this case it is different. Miss Gilchrist is 
simply thoughtless; she thinks no evil, and allows 
her impulses to carry her away.” 

“Oh, all right. I mean no harm. She certainly is 
awfully pretty, and I dare say she’s all right.” 

“I have known her since I was a boy,” said 
Britton, “and any criticism passed on her touches 
me as nearly as if she were.my own sister.” 

“Beg your pardon, then,” said the Harvard man ; 
“Dare say we fellows often speak too freely. 

“Supposed Britton was gone in another quarter,” 
he thought. Then aloud: 

“Are you tired? ” 

“No.” 

“ Let us swim out to them.” 

Miss Gilchrist perceived and recognized the two 
swimmers, and waived her handkerchief encourag- 
ingly. 

She had taken up her position in the bow of the 
boat, and she made a pretty picture, outlined against 
the splendid background of sea and sky. Her dark 
blue flannel skirt, blown about by the breeze, per- 
mitted her pretty feet and ankles to be seen; her 
blouse clinging closely to her figure, allowed its 
graceful outlines to be clearly distinguished, while its 
rolling collar left her exquisitely rounded neck 
exposed to view. Her face was framed in the halo 
of a dark, shiny sailor hat, which set off to advan- 
tage her white skin and fair hair, which was blowing 


74 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


about her ears and forehead in rebellious little curls 
and rings. 

The bracing air, the dazzling brilliancy of the sky 
reflected in the water, the pungent, penetrating odor 
of the ever restless waves, the rocking of the boat, 
intoxicated her senses, and awoke in her a longing 
for movement, and excitement, an exhuberant vitality 
which seemed to communicate itself to others. She 
quivered with excitement, and felt ready for any 
escapade or emergency. 

The attitude of the vicomte, suggestive of great 
physical discomfort, contributed to her gaiety. The 
puny victim of dissipation presented a pitiful con- 
trast to the majestic grandeur around him, and 
Sylvia, who made no pretentions to sentimentalism, 
either of heart or brain, found him ridiculous indeed. 

At first, actuated by a feeling of mere coquetry, she 
had encouraged the vicomte’s attentions. She found 
it amusing to hear him repeat all that he must have 
said on former occasions, at the opera in Paris, or 
behind the scenes at the ‘^Varieties; ’’ and the effort 
it caused him to make the necessary modifications in 
his phrases, and his evident embarrassment at the 
necessity for so doing, had been a source of great 
amusement to her. 

Gradually an undercurrent of cruelty began to mingle 
with her thoughtless coquetry, and Sylvia began to 
take pleasure in seeing him suffer, not arising from 
natural wickedness and heartlessness, but from cul- 
tivated cold-bloodedness, for she was training her- 
self to indifference to all things, and to a pessimistic 
view of the world in general. Skeptical by nature 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


ts 

as well as by imitation, this habit took more com- 
plete possession of her from day to day. The world 
was skeptical, and she must necessarily follow its 
lead if she would enjoy its pleasures and share its 
triumphs. In the new light which shone upon her 
from Miss Lawrence’s revelations she had studied 
her world carefully, and the conclusion she had 
arrived at was, that the true theory of life was to 
secure as much as possible for oneself and give as 
little as possible to one’s neighbors ; to be indifferent 
to other people’s misdeeds, and to take care that 
the world ignored yours. Criticism and gossip did 
not matter so long as the verdict remained ‘^Not 
proven.” If you were rich, attractive and amusing, 
if you entertained and held up your end of the social 
log, if there was something to be gained by your 
acquaintance, then the world overlooked your short- 
comings. All it asked was that you should not 
openly scoff at its code of morals, and not break its 
amendment to the decalogue. She had decided that, 
with her beauty and fortune'j it was possible to 
obtain all the attention and admiration she desired. 
She had learned that her money was an attraction 
to many, that her pretty face, quick tongue, and 
daring disregard of petty conventionalities — hidden 
under an assumption of childish innocence — pleased 
others, and she was determined to test her theory. 

Courage ! Courage ! ” she called to the swimmers, 
while behind her the vicomte, a prey to envy, jeal- 
ousy and incipient sea-sickness, hid his pale face in 
his hands. 

“ Will you take us aboard ? ” 


76 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


As the young men clambered into the boat the 
frail bark keeled dangerously, the vicomte uttered a 
little exclamation of alarm, and the sailor observed 
gruffly that ‘‘they’d better not try the trick again,” 
while Sylvia, losing her balance, was obliged to seize 
Louis’ wet arm to save herself from falling. 

“Are you not cold ? ” asked the vicomte. 

“No, by Jove! We are not cold. Can you not see 
that? ” 

And the student, who was standing, struck an 
attitude, showing his splendid chest, muscular 
arms and well-developed calves to perfection; his 
form, outlined by his dripping jerseys, was as supple 
and beautiful as an antique statue. 

Mr. Britton advanced to the bow of the boat, 
where he stretched himself out in the sunshine. 

Sylvia, without any affectation, lowered her eye- 
lids, feeling confused ; but not wishing to appear like 
an ingenue or mere boarding-school miss, raised them 
quickly and resumed the conversation. 

Besides, it did not concern her; what difference did 
it make ? She felt herself above such childishness ; 
she would not have blushed at any price, and so she 
raised her eyes to avoid the necessity of seeing their 
feet. 

“Oh ! How ugly a man’s foot is ! ” she thought. 

“It is one of the most delightful things in life to go 
boating.” 

She said this, at the same time allowing herself to 
sink back on the cushions, stretching out her arms 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


77 


toward the sea and throwing her head backward as 
if in an ecstacy of delight. 

The Hercules replied by a smile full of questionable 
meaning : 

“Boating has its poetical side, no doubt; to young 
girls, it affords scope for day dreams, and enables 
them to picture a future of love in its brightest col- 
ors.^’ 

The words by themselves were without importance, 
but the look and smile which accompanied them 
warned Sylvia that she was on dangerous ground. 
She felt alone and unprotected in the presence of an 
enemy, between two men whom she disliked, one of 
whom insulted at the same time he paid her court ; 
and the other, the vicomte, who swore he loved her, 
yet had not the courage to take her part. At this 
moment she perceived what cowardice could lie hid- 
den in the hearts of these men of fashion, who, in 
society were so attentive and obsequious. 

“ Oh, no, no ; there is nothing poetical about me ! ’’ 
she hastily replied. “I do not indulge in any day 
dreams; I am not at all fond of such doubtful pleas- 
ures.’’ 

She smiled meaningly, as he had done, while con- 
scious of a dull angry feeling arising in her heart, 
and, like a veil, clouding her eyes. She would have 
liked to box the vicomte’s ears; he irritated her with 
his imbecile expression; but not one sign of this 
inward storm could be discerned on the calm features 
of the bright tinted face. 

She leaned languidly back and opened her parasol. 
She was trying to copy the graceful poses of Mrs. 


78 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Berrisford, to imitate her lazy manner and dreamy 
look. She half closed her eyes, and pouted her red, 
dewy lips as if wanting to be kissed. A rapid glance 
showed her she had succeeded. They are three 
imbeciles,’^ she thought, and this conviction helped 
greatly to restore her self-assurance, and enabled her 
to keep up a desultory conversation with her com- 
panions, and bear the student’s bold glances with 
equanimity. 

At last the vicomte, who was growing whiter and 
more miserable every moment, remarked a handker- 
chief being vigorously waved from the veranda of 
the cottage which Mrs. Gilchrist had taken for the 
season. An expression of delight illumined his livid 
countenance : 

‘‘Look,” he exclaimed, “your mother is signaling 
for us to return.” 

“Let us pretend that we did not see,” returned 
Sylvia. 

“You had better land,” observed Mr. Britton; 
“the breeze is freshening, and our friend there, ” glanc- 
ing at the vicomte, “looks unhappy.” 

“Let him be unhappy ; he should not have brought 
me out if he was not sure of his sea legs.” 

“You will avoid an embarrassing scene by follow- 
ing my advice; ” then seeing Sylvia looked mutinous, 
he bent closer to her. “Do it for my— for old affec- 
tion’s sake,” he said. 

“ What is the use of striving to please the dead ? ” 

“My friendship for you is not dead.” 

“Is it not? Well, at least it is sickly.” 

“No, it is strong and vigorous.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


79 


Sylvia shruggedher shoulders. 

“ You do not believe me ? 

“I believe that you are too fond of another woman 
to take any interest in me.’’ 

Britton flushed hotly. 

‘‘And I believe,” he rejoined, “that the feeling with 
which you speak of our childhood’s friendship is all 
feigned, and that you have no heart. That you 
like being talked about, and court publicity, as people 
say.” 

Sylvia laughed ; she was pleased at his wrath. 

“Tell the man to land!” she said, addressing the 
vicomte. 

Uncle Dan sat on the veranda anxiously following 
the movements of the boat ; Mrs. Gilchrist, extended 
on a lounge, affected a deep interest in the book she 
held — Howell’s last novel. 

“Certainly,” the old uncle at last ventured to say, 
after gravely shaking his head, “these seaside resorts 
permit of situations which can hardly be called — 
poetical.” 

He added this innocent remark in order to avoid 
any appearance of preaching, but Mrs. Gilchrist, who 
anticipated a sermon, said in an injured tone: 

“That shows how unjust it is to attribute a motive 
to whatever one does.” 

“I am not attributing any motive, my dear sister; 
nevertheless, there are two young ‘men in Sylvia’s 
company who can hardly boast of a shred to cover 
their nudity.” 


80 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Would you have been better pleased if Sylvia had 
left them to perish ? ” 

‘‘They were in no danger, and I would have pre- 
ferred that they had not taken the liberty of convert- 
ing my niece’s boat into a bathing machine or a life 
boat, and I much prefer that Sylvia would choose 
another sphere for her acts of charity; the history of 
her Lake Saranae adventure is still fresh in people’s 
memory, and this world is not a charitable one.” 

“Then all the more reason why we should not lend 
a serious ear to its comments. It is eleven years now 
since my husband died. And, since you first came to 
live with us, it has been said that you are my lover. 
God knows how much truth there is in it ! ” 

“And I,” murmured Uncle Dan, who had not the 
slightest doubt as to what were his present, past or 
future intentions. 

But he reproached himself for not having been 
sufficiently amiable toward his sister-in-law, and, 
crossing to where she reclined, bent over her, and 
laying his hand on the book on her knee said: 

“You know very well that I adore that child.” 

“I do not doubt it, Dan, but you have such old- 
fashioned ideas. They date bach half a century, at 
least. Those who meet you at five o’clock teas 
would never think so ; but here, with us, in your own 
family, you are hopelessly provincial.” 

Uncle Dan changed color and bowed in submission 
to the accusation. He was always the same, always 
ending by agreeing with his sister-in-law, who tri- 
umphantly inculcated theories of independence which 
she had never personally put into practice. 


CHAPTER X. 


“Ltiw ? What’s Lutv ? Thon can luw thy lass an’ ’er miinny too, 
Maakin’ ’em goa togither as they’ve good right to do.” 

— Tennyson. 


Before the end of the season, during which Sylvia 
had been one of the reigning belles at Narragansett, 
our heroine received two offers of marriage. One 
from a young spendthrift who had naught to recom- 
mend him save his family, which was a distinguished 
one, and the other from the Vicomte de Blfonette, 
who had become seriously enamored of the capricious 
and daring little beauty, as well as of her fortune, 
and who was anxious to introduce his new American 
plaything to the Faubourg St. Germain. 

“ There said Sylvia to herself, looking at her 
reflection in the mirror, ‘‘there is the young lady 
who is quoted in the matrimonial market as worth 
a couple of millions; height, five feet five; weight, 
one hundred and twenty-five pounds ; figure, good ; 
features, tolerable; manner pleasing, if eccentric* 
hands and feet irreproachable; good tempered, clever 
and agreeable. Might it not reasonably be supposed 
that a man combining family, intelligence and good 

habits might attempt the conquest of her heart, 
6 81 


82 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


acknowledging even that the conquest would prove 
a difficult one ? But not a bit of it ! Such men exist 
only in romance, or if they do exist in real life, are 
not t© be met with in my world. We girls have to 
take our choice from idlers and spendthrifts who wor- 
ship our money without even knowing the color of our 
eyes, or titled monsters steeped in vice and crippled 
with debts, who, having assured themselves that 
our incomes are equal to the creditable maintenance 
of their titles, condescend to show us off in their 
faubourg salons because they cannot force our 
acceptance of those in the Quartier Breda. After all 
to be a vicomtess is not so bad; a coronet would be 
rather becoming, and I fancy I should like Parisian 
society; married women have it all their own way 
there, and I should not have to appear eccentric in 
order to secure the admiration and attention I like. 
But, stupid, vicious, rickety; no; it is paying too 
high a price ! 

After this soliloquy, she went down stairs and, dis- 
appointed and vexed, instructed her mother to write 
to the vicomte formally rejecting his offer of mar- 
riage. Mrs. Gilchrist was quite annoyed at Sylvia’s 
decision, as she had hoped that she w^ould marry the 
vicomte, and had even made up her mind that she 
would be willing to cross the ocean twice a year for 
the purpose of visiting her in her new home. But all 
remonstrances were in vain, and the .letter was 
accordingly sent. 

It was growing dull at Narragansett, and Sylvia 
wanted to get away. Mr. Seymour had a summer 
residence at Faversham, and Margaret had often 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


83 


Invited her to visit with her there. Mrs. Berrisford 
also had a cottage not far from Margaret^s home, 
and as Sylvia wanted to keep herself informed of 
that lady’s movements there could be no better way 
than to accept Margaret’s invitation to visit her. 
She knew that where Mrs. Berrisford was Louis 
Britton was sure to be not far away. She won- 
dered if he were there now. She determined to find 
out. 

She induced her uncle to take her up to New York 
for a few days’ shopping. Among other purchases 
she bought a supply of such literature as was forbid- 
den fruit at home. Mrs. Gilchrist had shown remark- 
able firmness on the subject of Sylvia’s reading, and 
dire was the fate which awaited a copy of Belot’s, de 
Maupassant’s or their prototypes, if it fell into her 
hands. Sylvia really loved her mother, and respected 
her beliefs and prejudices sufficiently to prevent her 
from openly defying them. So that, on the principle 
that what the eye does not see the heart does not 
long for, she affected a compromise, read what her 
mother approved of openly, and such works as she 
thought would throw light on the morals and man- 
ners of the day in secret. 

In the train, on their way to Faversham, Uncle 
Dan remarked : 

‘‘I hope you have brought your paint-box; the 
country round Faversham is very picturesque, and 
you could amuse yourself by sketching.” 

“I have given up painting.” 

‘‘ Given it up ! Why ? ” 

^‘For a very good reason.” 


84 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘I cannot imagine any good reason when you pos- 
sess such talent.’’ 

‘‘The paints stain my fingers.” 

There was a short pause. Uncle Dan pondered 
over Sylvia’s reply, while she looked idly out at the 
rapidly passing panorama. 

“You had rather a talent for writing verses ; some 
of your poems were quite commendable. Why do you 
not continue it?” 

“It would take too much time, and I am afraid of 
injuring my eyes ; moreover, I dare not continue it 
for fear I should grow romantic,” retorted Sylvia, 
looking into her uncle’s face and laughing mock- 
ingly. 

“What a dear old uncle you are! Would you like to 
send me back to school in order to have me gain a 
diploma as teacher, so as to have a resource in case 
poverty overtakes me?” 

“No.” 

“Then you wish me to adopt a literary career and 
become one of those appalling women from whom all 
men fly in alarm. Tell me, do you think my feet were 
intended for bluestockings ? Look at them.” 

Leaning back in her chair she pulled up her skirts 
and thrust out for his inspection two dainty russet- 
clad feet, laughing the while like a spoiled child. 

“Sylvia, my dear! ” exclaimed Uncle Dan, shocked, 
“put your feet down. I can see your garters; be 
quick, some one will notice you 1 ” 

“Well,” returned Sylvia coolly, “what if they do? 
I am not deformed.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


85 


‘^Sylvia! Such actions are extremely unladylike, 
and I must insist that, in my presence, at least, you 
will conduct yourself more modestly.” 

‘‘Well, well, since you think my feet are so awfully 
ugly, I will put them out of sight.” Sylvia planted 
her feet on the foot-stool, shook down her gown, and 
assumed an attitude of the utmost demureness. 

“ Tell me, uncle, why are you so anxious to find 
occupation for me ? Does it seem to you that time 
hangs so heavy on my hands ? ” 

“No, yet it seems to me that there are times when 
you are lonely.” 

Sylvia stopped to consider. 

“Sometimes such is the case; Ido not deny it; but 
what can Ido? The remedies you suggest would be 
worse than the disease.” 

“So there is nothing you particularly care about 
doing? ” 

“Yes, I should like to lead a gayer life.” 

Uncle Dan gave a bound which caused the springs 
of his chair to squeak in protest, while Sylvia turned 
sharply round and looked out of the window in order 
to hide the mocking smile on her lips. 

During the remainder of the journey Uncle Dan 
appeared to be entirely absorbed in the perusal of his 
favorite magazine, the Nineteenth Century Review. 


CHAPTER XI. 


‘•Weep, neifflibors, weep; do you not hear it said 
That love is dead ? 

His death-bed peacocks folly, 

His winding-sheet is shame. 

His will false, seeming holy, 

His sole executor, blame.*’ 

Philip Sidney. 


The Seymour’s country place gave one the impres- 
sion of having been directly transplanted from Eng- 
land. Sylvia’s first glance took in a house of a severe 
style of architecture, wherein she instinctively felt 
that life was conducted methodically. On the porch 
Margaret, with a look of bright expectancy on her 
face, stood waiting to greet her, and, as the carriage 
drew up, ran down the steps as lightly as if she 
hardly trod the ground. 

“So, at last, I am to have my long promised visit ! 
she exclaimed, as she kissed Sylvia warmly. 

Mr. Seymour had followed his daughter, and 
extended a courteous if somewhat formal welcome 
to Mr. Gilchrist and his niece. The two old gentle- 
men retired to the library, and the girls were left to 
themselves. 

The Seymour family spent the greater part of the 

year at their country place. They left town at the 
86 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


87 


end of April, and rarely returned until after Christmas. 
Mr. Seymour dearly loved its quiet and seclusion, for 
there he could study undisturbed, or dream for long 
hours over his vanished youth and happiness. 

The interior of the house was in keeping with the 
exterior; everything was old-fashioned and severe; 
the prevailing disorder and elegant confusion of the 
day found no devotees there. No fashionable bric-a- 
brac or useless ornaments crowded the drawing-room; 
the furniture was of old-fashioned design, uphol- 
stered in damask, but there was a delightful sense of 
repose in the faded tints of the hangings which formed 
a fitting background for the occupants of the house. 

Sylvia instinctively clasped her hands round her 
wrists to stop the clinking of her bangles, and 
lowered her voice as they stepped inside the door, 
feeling that she must attune her tones to the solemn 
ticking of the ancient clock on the landing. She 
looked at her friend, who seemed to be perfectly in 
harmony with her antiquated surroundings. 

The grey-haired butler who carried up her bag, and 
the elderly maid who received her keys and offered to 
unpack her trunk, all made her feel as if she had 
stepped from the bustle of 1891 into the more placid 
days of a century back. An unreasonable feeling of 
depression took possession of her. She wished she 
had not come ; her own home on the Hudson with 
its brilliant garden, the verandas gay with flowering 
plants, and bright red and white striped awnings, the 
house filled to overflowing with the prettiest and 
most eccentric of modern furniture, and crowded 
with expensive and useless ornaments, flashed like a 


88 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


vision before her, and the hot tears welled up in her 
eyes as a terrible sense of homesickness swept over 
her. She turned away from Margaret and bent over 
her traveling bag to hide her emotion. 

‘‘How do you pass your time here? ” she asked. 

“I read to my father, walk about the park, ride on 
horseback, visit and receive visits occasionally. And 
you — what have you been about, Sylvia ? ’’ 

“Nothing in particular; sometimes gay , sometimes 
the reverse ; always terribly busy doing nothing. I 
dragged my two old dears to Narragansett, where 
we met a crowd of people from every quarter of the 
globe. It wore mamma out.’^ 

“Tell me who you met at Narragansett? It amuses 
me to hear something of the world from which I am 
here so remote.’^ 

“There was the usual crowd of women from every 
part of the country. Western heiresses who had 
brought their money and good looks to the Eastern 
market, and a lot of people who claim to have come 
from New York, Boston or Philadelphia, but whom 
one never meets in society. It is a hateful place. I 
shall never go there again.” 

“How did you happen to go this year ? ” 

“ We have no house at Newport, and we would not 
put up in a hotel there, so mamma thought that by 
taking a cottage at Narragansett we might manage 
to share in some of the gaieties of the former place. 
I did not go there very often.” 

“What men were at Narragansett?” 

“TheYicomte Blonette — you know I wrote you 
about him ; he was my chief admirer; and there was 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


89 


an Englishman, an author, such a handsome fellow, 
quite my ideal of Lord Byron. He was the only one 
who showed no inclination to makelovetome. Such 
a pity, for really I quite fancied him ! 

‘‘Mrs. Berrisford told me she met you there, and 
that you were a great success.’^ 

“I gained this much, that the papers mentioned 
my toilettes. Do you see Mrs. Berrisford often ? 

Margaret looked slightly embarrassed. She was 
not clever at subterfuge, and she did not like to admit 
that her father disapproved of Mrs. Berrisford, and 
discouraged any intimacy between the two houses. 

“She lives at such a distance,’^ she said lamely. 

“A distance! cried Sylvia in surprise; “why she 
told me it was not ten minutes walk across the 
fields.^’ 

Margaret colored slightly, but made no reply for 
an instant, then she said : 

“I will leave you now, dear; we shall just have 
time to dress for dinner. I must warn you that my 
father is very punctual.’^ 

Margaret left the room, and Sylvia, as she turned 
to her toilet table, said to herself: 

“Yes, very punctual, rigid and old-fashioned. I am 
sure he disapproves of Florence Berrisford, and 
objects to Margaret ^s going there. I always feel as 
if I was taking cold when he is in the room; his man- 
ner is positively glacial. I do n’t understand how he 
can have such a nice daughter, or how my dear, 
warm-hearted old uncle can like him so much. I sup- 
pose I must account for it on the ground that there 
is a natural affinity between blood relations and 


90 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


contemporaries. I am positive that I can never 
stand this for a week, particularly if it is impossible 
for me to accomplish what I came for. 1^11 see how 
the evening passes, and if I am too much bored I will 
get mamma to recall me.’^ 

And, cheered by the knowledge that she was not 
obliged to remain at Faversham unless it suited 
her, Sylvia went down to dinner. 

It was a dreary meal. The two old gentlemen 
talked about politics, and then Mr. Seymour con- 
sulted Mr. Gilchrist as to the advisability of selling 
some stocks ; finally they wandered off into a lengthy 
discussion regarding some recent scientific work. 

The girls conversed languidly in subdued tones. 
All Sylvia’s high spirits had deserted her, and Uncle 
Dan, looking at his niece, wondered if she could be ill, 
or if he could have wounded her feelings by the man- 
ner in which he had spoken to her on the train. 
Sylvia was heartily glad when Margaret rose, and 
she followed her out of the dining-room with much 
the same feeling that a prisoner has when escaping 
from his enforced seclusion. She felt as if she could 
no longer endure the atmosphere within the house. 

‘‘Let us go out of doors,” she said. 

“Confess,” said Margaret, “that even on the 
threshold of this house ennui took possession of you. 
You could not exist here for a month.” 

“I shall confess nothing of the sort. I am far too 
pleased to see you to be bored.” 

Margaret sighed. 

“Yes, I know you are fond of me, but you would 
rather see me in New York.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


91 


‘‘Nonsense! But tell me; are you really happy 
here ? Have you had a pleasant summer ? 

“ Certainly I am happy ; I like the country better 
than the town ; I feel freer and less constrained. I do 
not see many people, but those I do see are congenial 
souls, and I have my father who is all the world to 
me, my poor people in the village, my books and my 
horse.’^ 

“And does this life satisfy you perfectly?’’ Sylvia 
asked in amazement. 

“No, not perfectly, but I fancy no one is perfectly 
contented in this world ; that we are all reaching out 
and longing for something better than we have 
known. I never knew anyone who was perfectly 
happy, and doubtless it is ordered so, for if we had 
everything just as we desired here, if life was as beau- 
tiful and people as good and noble as our ideals paint 
them, there would be nothing left to strive for; there 
would be no need of Heaven.” 

“I wonder if there is a Heaven ? ” 

“Oh, Sylvia! You do not doubt that? Surely all 
your sentiments, your nobler instincts tell—” 

“Margaret, I know all about your sentiments and 
admire them, but one must be born religious as one 
is bom a musician. I do not want to make myself 
out worse than I am, but I have my doubts about 
everything. Each day convinces me more and more 
that we are only sincere at the moment of our grati- 
fication. The world is all falsehood, more or less 
noble, more or less honorable, but still falsehood. 
I do not include you; you are an exception ; any 


92 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


falsehood that you may be guilty of is innocent and 
altogether opposed to hypocrisy.” 

‘‘I don^t understand; what do you mean?” 

mean that you believe in the chimeras of a past 
age, of which honor, high aspirations, religion, sacri- 
fice and devotion form the foundation. Your father 
is one of the old race, and you have been educated in 
his creed — ” 

“Oh Sylvia ! You have not lost your faith in God 
because you have lost your faith in the purity of 
society? All that passes through the hands of man 
becomes corrupted ; the purest, the brightest things 
are dimmed by constant use; it maybe so with relig- 
ion ; it maybe that man, with too much speculation, 
has weakened his faith, — but ought we to deny it for 
that?” 

As she said this Margaret stopped as if in despair; 
her checks were pale, her hands trembling. 

“Oh! ” she cried, “I cannot talk to you as I would 
like, but I beseech you, Sylvia, try not to lose your 
childhood’s faith. Your world may seem false, shal- 
low and cruel, but there are such things as love, 
truth, honor, devotion; do not doubt it — do not 
doubt that there is a better life than the one you 
lead, a better w’^orld beyond this.” 

“Yes,” interrupted Sylvia, “that may all be true, 
but I cannot see that you are any happier for your 
exalted sentiments. The falsehood and shameless- 
ness of the world hurt you just as much as if you did 
not believe that all the virtues still had an abiding 
place in it. You weep and fly from it, I laugh and 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


93 


amuse myself in it ; which of us is the wiser? No, I 
could not be like you ; such a life would kill me.’^ 

Margaret sighed, but did not respond ; a thousand 
thoughts welled up in her mind, but she did not 
know how to form them into words — she felt help- 
less to combat Sylvid^s arguments. She believed 
firmly in God and in Heaven, in a reward for good 
and a punishment for evil; but she was not happy 
any more than Sylvia was. Why ? 

They had gone directly into the garden from the 
house, and had wandered on as they talked, through 
the dewy garden where the night air was heavy with 
the odor of mignonette and old-fashioned pinks, and 
across a silent meadow, until they now stood at the 
gate of Mrs. Berrisford’s grounds. 

Margaret started when she perceived where they 
were. 

Sylvia laid her hand on the latch. 

“Let us go in, she said, and Margaret followed 
across a little strip of lawn, and up a short flight of 
steps to the house. 

“How quiet it is,^’ she observed. “I donT believe 
there can be anyone at home! 

“There is a light in that further window,^’ 
answered Sylvia, “and I thought I heard voices.’’ 

Then, moved by a sudden spirit of curiosity, she 
added : 

“Wait here, Meg, while 1 run and peep in; if there 
are strangers calling we will defer our visit until 
another time.” 

She ran lightly over the turf, and, pausing in the 
shadow of a tree which stood close to the window. 


94 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


looked in. A man and woman were standing in the 
middle of the room; she faced the window, and 
Sylvia, gazing at her, felt a jealous pang. 

'‘How beautiful she is! ” she thought; "no wonder 
Louis loves her.’’ 

The man spoke. 

"Then, Florence, it is all false, and you have not 
been untrue to me? ” he said, each word ringing out 
distinctly on the clear night air. 

"I swear that we are nothing but friends; I have 
never cared for anyone but you.” 

The man put his hand under Mrs. Berrisford’schin, 
and lifting her face to his kissed her. 

A twig snapped under Sylvia’s foot as she drew 
back softly. The man turned abruptly ; it was not 
Louis Britton. 

" What was that ? ” he asked. 

"Nothing,” answered Mrs. Berrisford, calmly, 
"the nights here are full of queer sounds.” 

Sylvia, walking backward, retreated further into 
the shadow; suddenly she became conscious that the 
darkness hid another person. She scrutinized her 
neighbor sharply; it was Louis, and he was trembling 
violently. 

Sylvia took his hand. 

"Come away,” she said gently; "my poor Louis, 
come with me! ” 

Mr. Britton did not speak, but permitted himself 
to be led where Margaret waited. 

"Well?” said Miss Seymour. 

"Mrs. Berrisford has company,” answered Sylvia. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


95 


Miss Seymour noticed that her friend^s voice 
sounded strangely, and that Mr. Britton’s face, in 
the moonlight, looked strangely pale and set. She 
said nothing, but, turning, took the road back to 
Faversham, walking a little in advance of the others 
so as to give Louis and Sylvia a chance to talk. 

At the garden gate Louis paused. 

“Will you not come in? ” Sylvia asked. 

“No, I shall catch the night train back to town.” 

“Will you do something for me? ” 

“Gladly.” 

Sylvia looked to see if Margaret was beyond ear- 
shot. 

“Send me a telegram saying my mother needs me.” 

“Very good. Sylvia, you will not speak of this? ” 

“Not to a living soul.” 

Louis took her hand and held it closely for a 
moment, then walked rapidly away. 


V 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ Hearken, hearken ! 

The child is shouting at his play 
Just in the trampling funeral’s way.” 

— E. B. Browning. 


Mr. Britton was as good as his word, and late on 
the following afternoon, Sylvia received a telegram 
from her mother saying that she was not well, and 
desiring her immediate return. Sylvia, although she 
had expected this summons, felt a vague sense of 
alarm as she read the message; and Uncle Dan's 
uneasiness was so evident that she was several times 
on the point of telling him why her mother had 
recalled them. He seemed even more impatient to 
get away than Sylvia herself, and, to the young girl's 
astonishment, her hosts made no effort to retain 
them, but, on the contrary, did everything to facili- 
tate their departure, and the next evening found 
Sylvia at home. 

Mrs. Gilchrist met the travelers at the station, and, 
in answer to Uncle Dan's: 

‘‘Why, Grace, I expected to find you in bed! " she 
answered by a peal of laughter. 

“Oh! Sylvia, Sylvia," she cried, shaking her finger 
at her daughter. “You shameless little fraud! You 
have deceived your uncle as well as your friends." 

9ft 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


97 


Mr. Gilchrist looked in amazement from one to the 
other. 

‘‘I don’t understand,” he said. 

Louis Britton came up from town yesterday morn- 
ing,” said Mrs. Gilchrist, ^‘and told me that he had 
seen Sylvia at Faversham, and that she had asked 
him to get me to call her home;” then turning to 
S\dvia she added: 

“ What made you so anxious to come back, child ? 
I thought you anticipated such a delightful time with 
Margaret.” 

“I could not stand the place. I felt as if I were 
buried alive ! ” 

^‘You are hopelessly changeable and impulsive,” 
said Mrs. Gilchrist in a tone of gentle reproof, ^‘butl 
am too happy to have you back to find any fault 
with you.” 

Sylvia glanced at her uncle. She expected that the 
fault-finding would come from him, and prepared her- 
self to receive his reproaches meekly, but, to her 
astonishment, the old gentleman never uttered a 
word. 

‘‘Why did 3"OU not keep Louis, mamma?” 

“I tried to do so, for he looked wretchedly ill and 
worn ; but he would not stay, and told me that he 
should sail for Europe to-morrow.” 

“lie is going to Europe!” said S3dvia blankly". 
“Did he leave no message lor me? ” 

“None. I have asked Mr. Ballantine up to spend 
Sunday, as I thought \"ou would need someone to 
amuse you; and, moreover, I wanted to consult him. 

7 


98 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Do you know, Dan, that the Havens are going to 
bring a suit about that property at Flushing? ” 

But why did you send for Ballan tine? We have 
never had any dealings with him ; it was Scott you 
should have sent for.” 

‘‘Did you not know that Mr Scott had a stroke of 
paralysis a fortnight ago? I suppose Mr. Ballantine 
will have the entire management of the business 
now.” 

“He is a very clever lawyer,” responded Uncle Dan, 
“and, I fancy, has done most of the drudgery and 
brainwork of the office for some time past. I am 
sorry about Scott; but your interests will be per- 
fectly safe in Ballantine’s hands. 

Mrs. Gilchrist and Uncle Dan discussed the possible 
lawsuit during the remainder of the drive home, and 
Sylvia, lying back in her corner of the carriage, medi- 
tated over Louis^ abrupt departure. 

“I wonder who the man I saw could be?” she 
thought. “It is evident that Louis was desperately 
in love with Mrs. Berrisford, and that she has made 
him think himself the only man she ever cared for, 
that she has deceived him to the top of his bent, and 
that the awakening has been very bitter. I wonder 
why he goes away? In his place I should stay to 
teach her a lesson. I am surprised he left me no mes- 
sage, for I thought I had convinced him of the sincer- 
ity and disinterestedness of 1113^ sisterly affection.” 

“Uncle,” said Sylvia, as they alighted from the 
carriage, “are you very angry with me for my little 
trick ? ” 

Her uncle looked at her gravely. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


99 


‘‘No, child, my thankfulness is so great that it 
leaves no room for anger.’’ 

“What can he mean?” thought Sylvia. “Is it 
possible that he was as glad as I to get away from 
Faversham?” 

Sylvia found a number of letters awaiting her in 
her room, among them one from Louis Britton. He 
wrote that he realized what a fool he had been, and 
that now, looking back over the past year, he could 
not understand why his eyes had not been opened 
sooner. He did not wish to meet Mrs. Berrisford 
again, and he hoped that his abrupt departure would 
be generally accepted as the result of a quarrel 
between them. He relied upon Sylvia’s honor, and 
friendship for him not to breathe a word of what she 
had seen. He hoped she would write to him 
sometimes, for letters from friends whose sincerity 
was undoubted were the greatest consolation to a 
sore heart. 

He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he 
was deeply wounded; and Sylvia, though she 
thought him weak, felt sorry for him, and resolved 
that if her letters could mitigate his suffering he 
should not want for comfort. As she wandered 
about the room, lazily dressing for dinner, she 
hummed under her breath the milkmaid’s song: 

“I wonder what this love can be, 

Which cometh to all, but not to me.” 

That evening, after dinner, while her mother and 
Uncle Dan were indulging in forty winks in the 
drawing-room, Sylvia ensconsed herself in a corner 


100 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


of the veranda with Ballantine, the serious, sceptical 
Ballantine, smoking a cigar at her feet. 

'‘Tell me frankly, Mr. Ballantine, what is your 
opinion of me? ” 

“ What it was, or what it is ? ’’ 

" The imperfect tense.’^ 

“A bad one.^’ 

"And now? 

"Still worse, if possible.’^ 

Sylvia had anticipated a very different reply. 

"It is evident that you did not come overburdened 
with gallantry. 

"No, I came on business, and had no more room 
in my portmanteau than was required for my even- 
ing suit and legal papers.’^ 

They were silent for a few minutes. Sylvia had 
risen to her feet ; she looked taller than usual, her 
white lace-trimmed gown which fell in long soft 
folds about her adding several inches to her apparent 
height. The night was deliciously calm and mild, 
full of soft murmurs and perfume. The moon was 
full, and under its clear rays the landscape, with the 
great river shimmering at their feet, was clearly 
discernible ; all ugly and unsightly things were 
transformed in the moon^s soft light; all was ideal- 
ized and beautified; even as death idealizes a 
departed friend. 

"I know,^^ said Sylvia, "that there has been a 
great deal of gossip about me.’’ 

She paused a moment, expecting him to protest, 
but as he did not speak she continued: 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


101 


‘‘People accuse me of vanity and frivolity ; I am 
called eccentric, a coquette, and Heaven only knows 
what else! ’’ 

“All calumnies, naturally? 

‘ ‘ No, not altogether calumnies, ’’ she replied calmly. 
“What then?^’ 

“Well — ^’Sylvia paused, she was in a dilemma, and 
she awaited a word from Ballantine which would 
indicate a way out of it; but he merely continued to 
look at her with his cold clear eyes, turning his head 
from time to time to blow away the smoke from his 
cigar. 

“I did think, said Sylvia, changing her tactics, 
“that you understood me.’' 

“It is a common trick with women to appear enig- 
matical ; they think it makes them interesting. It is 
a constant reproduction of the courts of love, where 
the fortunate reader of the enigma won the heart of 
the fair riddle. Doubtless once that sort of thing 
was very exciting and romantic ; in those days there 
was not so much to interest and absorb a man as 
there is now ; life was less complicated, and the ten- 
der passion played a more important part ; but now 
a-days, when every illustrated paper has its rebus, 
the prize for solving which is not a fragile heart but 
a substantial piece of gold stamped with the Ameri- 
can eagle, the old game has lost its interest." 

“ Ah! " said Sylvia, “I forgot that all women were 
the same in your sight." 

“Up to a certain point, yes; nevertheless, I too, 
make a distinction; there are the deceived and the 
deceivers." 


102 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘Oh! said Sylvia, clapping her hands softly, “you 
have betrayed yourself; anyone can see that you side 
with the deceived.’^ 

“I confess,^’ returned Ballantine, flicking the ashes 
from his cigar, “that I prefer women who are simple 
enough to be easily comprehended.” 

“According to you then, I am an enigmatical 
woman.” 

“Very much worse — you try to appear so.” 

“Then to you there is nothing which is not clearly 
decipherable in my character? ” 

Ballantine threw away his cigar, and said in a 
grave voice : 

“ What a lovely vsky, and how bright the moon is! 
When I was a child, they assured me that paradise 
lay beyond that blue vault, and that the stars were 
eyes of angels. I believed it, and was very miserable 
when I discovered that that thin exquisite blue was 
only ether, and that all the glitter was only incandes- 
cent matter. It was an useless grief ; it would have 
been better to have told me the truth at once.” 

“And because you were deceived regardingthe sky, 
you believe in nothing on earth ? ” 

“I believe in mathematical demonstration,” replied 
the lawyer, lighting another cigar, “and I can rea- 
son from effect back to cause.” 

“Oh! ” exclaimed Sylvia, with a mischievous look, 
“lean divine what constitutes your ideal woman. 
She must be beautiful as a goddess, but unconscious 
of her charms ; indifferent to admiration, strong and 
cold enough to resist all others, yielding and ardent 
to you alone, prepared to sacrifice herself in order to 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


103 


give you pleasure; brave, patient and revsigned when 
you weary of her afifeetion ; and, as it was necessary 
to await your good pleasure to share the joys of 
existence, so a sign from you ought to be enough to 
make her withdraw. It was Solomon, that barba- 
rian Solomon, who set you the bad example, and who 
wrote: ‘The wise woman looketh well to the ways 
of her household, and eateth not the bread of idle- 
ness;’ he did not even add that she gave 
thought to her own wardrobe. She was all for her 
husband.” 

“Women, on the contrary,” continued Ballantine, 
in aslightly ironical tone, “do not even ask if a man 
is handsome, brave, generous or honorable; they are 
so good themselves that they think no evil, but 
accept him just as he is. It suffices that he dresses 
and dances well. Solomon was silent on this subject, 
but long before his time Eve demonstrated the femi- 
nine tendency by preferring the serpent to the man.” 

Sylvia felt piqued and irritated. She knew Ballan- 
tine to be a man of a high order of intelligence, and 
considered a rising man; but she did not like him; 
his tongue was too caustic, his vision too keen, and 
his judgment too pitiless. On one occasion she had 
said of him “that she hoped he would never be a 
judge, as she was sure that in every case he would 
deal out to the offender the utmost penalty of the 
law.” She did not admire him, but she wished him 
to admire her, and she had an irritating conscious- 
ness that her powers of fascination were thrown 
away upon him. 


104 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


She was looking her best that evening. Her soft 
white gown which tell around her in clinging folds, 
defining her graceful figure, was cut away at the 
neck so as to show to the greatest advantage her 
rounded throat and well poised head, while the 
bright moonlight revealed effectively all those little 
charms of which she knew herself possessed, and she 
felt that any other man would have been moved 
by her fascinations, aided by the witchery of the 
hour. 

am no believer in love,^* she continued, ^‘my 
limited experience having already destroyed the illu- 
sions of my school days, but I have firm faith in 
friendship; it is the one thing worth having.^^ 

“Yes, this tobacco is worth having, too.^^ 

“I am serious. Tell me, do you not even believe in 
friendship? 

“Friendship is merely a phrase in rhetoric.^' 

“Have you no friends, then?^^ 

“I know a good many people who call themselves 
my friends, because it is customary to dignify 
acquaintanceship by that title, but I would not sac- 
rifice a finger for them, nor would they for me.” 

“I am sure I should be capable of making a great 
sacrifice for a friend ! ” 

“Even to the extent of sacrificing a finger? Just 
think a moment, you could not replace one of those 
little white fingers as you could a tooth, or even 
3^our golden locks. You surely would not be willing 
to sacrifice one of j-our greatest charms for the sake 
of a friend.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


105 


He paused for a moment, puffing at his cigar, and 
gazing abstractedly out at the night ; then he con- 
tinued : 

A friend is the man we go to when we are in n^ed 
of a hundred dollars, yet how seriously annoyed we 
should be if any one asked us for fifty. The safest 
plan is to have faith in no one.’^ 

“You doubtless have the advantage of me in 
general experience, but with regard to friendship I 
refuse to agree with you. I refuse to have all my 
illusions dispelled. Heaven knows I have had to 
part with enough of them, and the process has not 
been agreeable, and I sometimes think not improv- 
ing.” 

There was a pause. Sylvia was wondering 
whether she had admitted too much, while Ballantine 
was thinking : 

“That, at least, was a truthful confession. God, 
what a pity it is that the world should so soon 
destroy a woman’s faith and purity of mind! This 
girl is sweetly pretty ; she looks innocence personified, 
and innocent perhaps she is, but not ignorant.” 

Suddenly Sylvia leaned forward holding out her 
hand: 

“ Suppose T offered you my friendship, would you 
refuse it ? ” 

“One never refuses a flower, though one knows it 
will be faded next day.” 

“You are an incorrigible skeptic.” 

She leaned over the parapet of the veranda, pre- 
tending to be looking at the moon, but in reality 


106 


A COMMON MIS'TAKE. 


furiously angry with Ballantine, whom she was 
more anxious than ever to subjugate. 

X On this autumn evening she, who was altogether 
devoid of sentiment, felt a vague longing to share in 
some romantic adventure. Was it the light breeze, 
which, penetrating her thin garments, touched her 
shoulders and arms with a gentle caress ? At that 
moment, she was simply feminine. The opening 
blossoms of her budding womanhood exhaled a 
seductive perfume ; she did not love, but a man was 
close to her — a man whom her heart repelled, but to 
whom her senses unconsciously accorded a welcome 
reception. It seemed to her that a declaration of love 
was in order, not that she would have accepted 
Ballantine’s love, but she was curious to see how 
he would act under such circumstances. She 
wondered why he did not kiss her hand which, rest- 
ing on the veranda rail, looked small and trans- 
parent in the moonlight, the palm upturned and the 
tapering fingers separated and slightly curved. She 
knew herself possessed of a soft skin, perfect figure, 
and pretty face; surely that was enough to make a 
man lose his head for a moment. 

‘^Ifl werea married woman,’’ she thought, ‘‘he 
would long ago have cast prudence and propriety to 
the winds. It is singular how a man can find an}^ 
satisfaction in making love to another man’s wife, 
but I suppose, as my old friend Solomon said, ‘stolen 
waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleas- 
ant.’ For my part, if I were a man, I should be of 
Kate’s opinion; I would have all or nothing! ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


107 


She shrugged her shoulders, threw her head back 
and drew in deep draughts of the fragrant air with a 
plainly visible upheaving of her bosom. 

‘‘Ah! that does one good.’^ 

“What? ’’ asked Ballantine indolently, “the air? 

“Yes; this perfume laden air both caresses and 
bites ; there is a certain chill in it. It is suggestive 
of kisses and quarrels.” 

“And you would delight in the latter.” 

“ Who told you so ? ” 

“I infer it.” 

“You are mistaken, utterly mistaken in your judg- 
ment of mycharacter I ” 

She stood erect before him, her head thrown back, 
her eyes clear and brilliant, her lips apart, almost 
smiling, her nerves quivering with excitement and a 
soft glow spreading over her features. 

Ballantine forgot himself, leaned forward, and, 
seizing Sylvia^s wrists, drew her toward him as if he 
would encircle her with his arms. A bright light had 
kindled in his cold grey eyes. 

For an instant Sylvia yielded and swayed gently 
toward him, conscious of a feeling of inconceivable 
delight, an intense eager joy thrilling every nerve. 
She smiled, allowing herself to sink slowly forward, 
rejoicing in her triumph, then suddenly she drew her- 
self up, and shaking her head repeated : 

“You are mistaken,” her smiling eyes looking 
straight into his. 

“Hateful little coquette!” thought Ballantine, 
becoming instantly master of himself. 


108 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


In the silence which followed, Sylvia became aware 
of an unusual commotion in the drawing-room, and 
almost at the same instant her uncle called her. 

Possessed by a sudden terror, Sylvia stood for a 
moment as if paralyzed, then ran swiftly into the 
house, closely followed by Ballantine. 

Mrs. Gilchrist lay on the sofa, her face livid, her 
brow wet with great drops of agony; she was gasp- 
ing painfully, and the hard, irregular pulsations of 
her heart were clearly distinguishable. Mrs. 
Gilchrist^s maid had already administered such 
remedies as she could think of, and Sylvia, recovering 
her self-possession in a manner which amazed the 
lawyer, went quickly to her mother’s side, dexter- 
ously loosened her dress, and undid the fastenings of 
her corset. She appeared oblivious of anyone; all 
her energies were concentrated upon the task before 
her. 

Bring me some whisky, salt, and a dish!’’ she 
said to her uncle; then, turning to the maid: ‘‘Go 
and get me some flannel! ” 

In the moments that elapsed while her orders were 
being carried out, she vigorously chafed her mother’s 
hands, and tried to force her to swallow some drops 
of medicine. When the articles she had asked for 
were brought, she tipped the salt and whisky into 
the pan, and, setting fire to it, watched it burn for a 
few moments with apparent composure, though the 
watchful eyes in the background could see that her 
lips were shut tight, and noted the nervous twitch- 
ing about her mouth. When she judged that the 
mixture had burned long enough, she extinguished 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


109 


the flame and unhesitatingly plunged the piece of 
flannel she held in her hands into the scalding liquid, 
wrung it out, seemingly unconscious of the heat, 
and, bending, adroitly placed the compress over her 
mother's poor struggling heart. 

Ballantine noticed as Sylvia rose that her hands 
were scarlet. “Brave little hands!" he thought, a 
sentiment of admiration awakening within him. 

For some time Sylvia worked unremittingly and 
hopefully, while Uncle Dan, seemingly petrified, 
remained seated near the sofa watching every action 
of his niece, and every movement of the sufferer with 
an indescribable expression of helpless alarm on his 
pale features. Everj’^ now and then he suggested 
some remedy in a voice tremulous from fear. 

Mrs. Gilchrist, in the meantime, showed no signs 
of improvement, and Sylvia was visibly discouraged. 
At last she turned to Ballantine : 

“ Will you go for the doctor?" she said. “I have 
done all I know how to do ; this is the worst attack 
I have ever known mamma to have. I must have 
help." 

Ballantine bowed. 

“Take the dog-cart and the bay mare; she is the 
fastest traveler. Bring the doctor back with you. 
If he is not at home, find him, but don't return with- 
out a physician! " 

The lawyer again bowed, but without speaking, 
left the room. 

“Perhaps some eau de cologne might revive her," 
hesitated Mr. Gilchrist. 


110 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Sylvia shrugged her shoulders and looked at him 
contemptuously. She felt a strong inclination to 
shake the old man who sat there so helplessly, mak- 
ing useless suggestions, and recommending remedies 
which had already proved ineffectual. 

Why was it, she wondered, that men are called the 
stronger sex ? It seemed to her that they were the 
weakest; they were the most easily swerved by pas- 
sion from the line of duty, the most easily unnerved 
in time of sickness. Then she remembered how calmly 
and understandingly Ballantine had looked at her 
as she gave her directions. He would not fail, she 
was sure; he could be depended upon ; then came the 
bitter thought that her mother was nothing to him ; 
he was self-possessed and calm because he only 
regarded their anxiety from the standpoint of a man 
of the world in the presence of a trouble that did not 
concern him. 

The time dragged slowly; Sylvia continued to 
administer at regular intervals a medicine which the 
family physician had long ago prescribed for like 
attacks. She alternated between hope and fear. 
Sometimes Mrs. Gilchrist would seem better, her 
breathing became less labored, her heart beat more 
regularly; then she would press Sylvia's hand feebly 
and murmur a few affectionate words; in these brief 
respites she strove to reassure her child. 

'‘You must not be frightened, dear, I have often 
been worse; this will soon pass away. There, don't 
cry, child, I really do not suffer so terribly." 

"Hush, mother darling! Don't try to talk, you 
will only bring back the pain. You must keep very 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Ill 


quiet, dear; the doctor will soon be here, and will 
surely give something to relieve you.’^ 

‘‘Yes, yes, I shall soon be better, you must not 
worry. 

Sylvia tried not to worry; she strove to repress 
her tears and to restrain the signs of alarm which 
evidently troubled her mother. She knelt by the side 
of the sofa murmuring loving words, chafing and 
kissing her mother^s hands, lavishing all sorts of use- 
less attentions on the sufferer; conscious all the while 
of the sound of the rising wind outside, of the howl- 
ing of a dog in the distance, of the monotonous tick- 
ing of the clock. She noticed a stain on the frescoed 
ceiling, and wondered why she had never seen it 
before. She observed that the whisky she had heated 
had burned a large hole in the elaborately embroid- 
ered table cover, and she wondered vaguely how she 
could notice all these things when she was so anxious. 
Mrs. Gilchrist seemed to be dosing. Her face looked 
calm, but Sylvia, holding her wrist between her fin- 
gers, tried in vain to feel her pulse. 

“I did not knowanyone^s pulse could be so feeble,^’ 
she thought. “Poor, darling mamma, she is dread- 
fully exhausted, but this sleep will refresh her ; I am 
sure the worst is over.’^ 

She remained motionless, fearing to disturb her 
mother if she rose. At last, through the silence of the 
night, she heard the sound of a horse^s hoofs in the 
distance. 

“How fast he drives,” she thought. “Poor Fancy, 
she will be worn out ; he is forcing her to go up the 


112 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


hill at the top of her speed ! If only he knew, he does 
not need to hurry so now/’ 

The carriage drew up under the porte-cochere, and 
she heard Ballahtine’s clear voice ginng orders about 
the care of the mare ; then the doctor entered. 

The sound of the opening door roused Mrs. Gil- 
christ, and she opened her eyes. 

‘‘Ah! doctor,” she said feebly, “it was too bad to 
disturb 3^ou, I am so much — ” her voice failed, and 
she fell back on the pillows gasping painfulh\ 

“How long has this lasted ? ” asked the doctor. 

“Since half past ten — over two hours.” 

The doctor bent over his patient and examined 
her carefully, listening to the beating of her heart 
and counting her pulse. 

The lawyer came quietly into the room. 

“Could we not get her to bed, doctor? ” he asked. 

“ It would be wiser not to move her.” 

Sylvia grew deadly pale. 

“Tell me there is nothing to fear,” she gasped. 

The physician avoided looking at her. 

“We must hope for the best,” he answered. 

“What do you think, Uncle Dan ? ” throwing her- 
self into the old gentleman’s arms. 

And he, rigid, helpless, his lips quivering, a look of 
despair on his face, endeavored to smile, and stam- 
mered, as he patted Sylvia’s shoulder with a trem- 
bling hand: 

“Have courage, darling, she will soon be better.” 

Mrs. Gilchrist opened her eyes and fixed them on 
her daughter. Sylvia flew back to her side, her heart 


A COMMON MISTAKE. < 


113 


full of fear. Her mother raised herself, gasped spas- 
modically, and fell back. 

Sylvia’s voice rang out piercingly : 

‘‘Mamma! oh,mamma!” 

Ballantine sprang forward. He was too late. 
Sylvia fell fainting across the dead body of her 
mother. 



8 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“I thought to die when that great sorrow came, 

But learned too late that an intenser life 
Than joy can give, burns in the soul at strife 

Against itself. The bitterest griefs but maim, 

And kill not; when my very heart was rent 

With doubt and longing, and with anguish spent, 
Then life leaped up within me like a flame." 

— Anon. 


Grief had thrown its shadow so suddenly over 
Sylvia^s life that for a time she was numbed and 
terrified. She had seen others weep without its 
ever occurring to her that the hour might come when 
she, too, would shed bitter tears, and be bowed 
under a crushing weight of sorrow. Mrs. Gilchrist 
had striven to keep all sad and painful things out of 
her child’s life, and Sylvia had always fled from the 
presence of the afflicted with a selfish determination 
not to be depressed by their woe; and now that sor- 
row had come to her, she resented it as a cruel 
injustice. 

She had accused grief-stricken relations and 
acquaintances, of whose trials she had been an 
unwilling witness, of being lacking in courage, of 
being selfish in their desire to talk of their lost loved 
ones and inflict the spectacle of their sufferings on 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


115 


those around them. She had argued that the dead 
were, of course, far better off in happily participating 
in the joys of paradise; and that their friends should 
not weep and grieve for them, and long to call them 
back to earth, when they believed them to be 
happier where they were. She was convinced that 
her way of looking at things w'as the right one, and 
now she found that all her theories were vain ; that 
nothing could console or quiet the passion of despair, 
and she abandoned herself unrestrainedly to this 
hitherto unknown sensation, drinking the bitter cup 
of sorrow to the very dregs. 

She talked continually and to everyone of her 
beloved dead, growing excited over the recital of her 
own woes, imparting to the description of her 
mother^s death a dramatic intensity that surprised 
even herself. To look charming, to amuse herself, to 
study and to make the most of her attractions, had 
hitherto been her sole occupation, the one to which 
she had directed all her energies ; but she had never 
imagined that she was the possessor of any histri- 
onic talent, and the interest attached to the dis- 
covery induced her to indulge in frequent repetitions 
of the painful story. 

Her grief was profound and sincere. She missed her 
mother as she had never imagined it possible to miss 
anyone. She reproached herself bitterly for every 
thoughtless and impatient word which she had ever 
uttered. She blamed herself for not having better 
loved and appreciated her mother, and spent hours 
alone in Mrs. Gilchrist’s deserted and painfully 
orderly room, kneeling by the side of the bed where 


116 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


her mother had slept, and where she had lain in her 
last repose. She passed in review all the years of 
their life together, upbraiding herself for imaginary 
faults, calling aloud on her mother to forgive her 
neglect and selfishness, and beseeching her to come 
back, or to give her some sign of forgiveness, and of 
the certainty of her own happiness. 

Her sorrow was unfeigned, but her manner of 
speaking of it, honest and sincere though it was, 
resembled so closely her ordinary exaggerated man- 
ner of relating the most trifling events, that it irri- 
tated her hearers. 

People could not forgive her for going to the ceme- 
tery every afternoon between three and four o’clock, 
in a closed carriage drawn by black horses and driven 
by a coachman in mourning livery, she herself look- 
ing like a monument of woe, her slender figure 
shrouded from head to foot in a heavy black veil 
beneath which not even the glitter of her golden hair 
could be distinguished. Neither could they forgive 
her for wiping away the scalding tears she shed with 
a handkerchief of superfine quality. 

Sylvia had elected to pass the autumn in the house 
where her mother had died, which somehow seemed 
to her more closely associated with the mem- 
ories of Mrs. Gilchrist, and filled with the lingering 
sweetness of home life than their more imposing 
house in town. Here Mrs. Gilchrist had selected 
everything; her taste was evident in every room; 
each picture, and ornament, every piece of furniture, 
held its individual memory. And Sylvia, wandering 
about the lonely rooms, would pickup one trifle after 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


117 


another, and remember where they had bought it; 
how her mother, spying it out in some shop window, 
had exclaimed : ‘‘Ah ! That would be pretty in our 
nest. It is just what I wanted for that nook in the 
drawing-room.’’ Or: “See, Sylvia; there is just the 
thing that would be pretty hung in the blue room ! ” 
And how they had gone in, and looked and handled 
and discussed the price of the coveted article, and 
finally borne it away in triumph, with much laugh- 
ter and joy over their purchase. 

But it Wcis Sylvia who mourned. She who had 
already made herself conspicuous; and the world 
claimed that she wept as she laughed, with an eye to 
effect, always preoccupied with the impression to be 
produced. Among women she met with no quarter, 
merciless sous entendus being leveled at her, deadly as 
poisoned arrows. At the clubs, all her eccentricities 
were criticised, and her reputation torn to shreds. 
Ballantine was the only man who essayed to defend 
her; for during her hour of trial, he had seen her better 
nature revealed, undisguised by affectation and mor- 
bid desire for admiration. But after a little he held 
his tongue, observing that his defense only made her 
more enemies. 

Some averred having seen her nightdresses, and 
declared that they were trimmed with black embroid- 
ery and ornamented with knots of sable ribbon. 
Another, not to be outdone, affirmed that Sylviahad 
ordered black garters at Tiffany’s, with an enameled 
death’s head as a clasp. The present, owing to 
Sylvia’s persistent seclusion, failed to provide them 
with sufficient food for gossip, so they raked up all 


118 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


the old stories, told and re-told them with a piquant 
touch here and there and many a variation, until the 
original trifling misdemeanor was lost under a mask 
of heinous fiction. 

Kate and Margaret were the only friends who 
remained faithful, and arranged so that one or the 
other should be with her constantly. Louis Britton 
wrote affectionate, brotherly letters, taking upon 
himself the office of consoler, which Sylvia was to 
have filled for him ; and so, in the society of her loyal 
friende, the winter, enlivened by an occasional visit 
from Mr. Ballantine, who roused up the entire house- 
hold with his racy accounts of doings in town and 
his caustic criticisms on people and things, wore 
slowly away. 

In the first agony of grief Sylvia had determined to 
devote the remainder of her existence to weeping and 
deploring the loss of the one person really dear to 
her; but little by little her natural buoyancy of nat- 
ure asserted itself, and she unconsciously began to 
take an interest in the doings of those around her, to 
be amused by Mr. Ballan tine’s news of the great 
world from which she had so determinedly with- 
drawn, and her friends’ accounts of the gaieties in 
which they participated in town and from which her 
mourning excluded her. 

She began to find the country dreary and monoto- 
nous. The closed and deserted houses which she 
passed in her drives and walks depressed her. The 
lonely muddy roads through which the horses 
plowed, the cold damp air from the river, the naked 
branches of the trees through which the wind 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


119 


soughed mournfully, and the deadly silence of the 
nights, in which not a sound save the wind was to 
be heard outside, while the house seemed alive with 
strange noises — all became insupportable, and, when 
her uncle cautiously suggested one evening that they 
might go to town after Easter, hinting that he was 
very tired of the country and longed for his own 
particular corner at the club, Sylvia listened to him 
far more sympathetically than the old gentleman 
had dared to anticipate. She mentioned the matter 
to Kate and Margaret, who warmly seconded Mr. 
Gilchrist’s proposal, the one telling her gently ‘‘that 
she mUvSt be careful not to be selfish in her grief, 
that while it was right and natural she should 
mourn her mother it was not just that she should 
sacrifice her uncle,” adding sweetly: 

“You know, darling, that your dear mother was 
never selfish, and always tried to be bright and 
cheerful for every one, and I am sure it would grieve 
her to see you nursing a hopeless sorrow and sacri- 
ficing the happiness of the living to her memory.” 

While Kate, with her usual cheery, common sense, 
remarked: 

“Go back to town ? It is the wisest thing you can 
do! Mr. Gilchrist will fall into his second childhood 
prematurely if you keep him cooped up here, and 
this house needs a regular going over, while the one 
in town requires personal attention. Besides, Sylvia, 
you will become a perfect provincial if you stay mop- 
ing up here ; you have been a recluse for six months, 
and you know your dear mother disapproved of 
such a line of conduct.” 


120 


A COMMON MISTAKK. 


‘‘ But,’ ^ returned Sylvia, on the verge of tears, ‘‘I 
would not go out, Kate, if I went baek to town ; I 
have no heart for society! ” 

Of course you have not, and nobody wants you 
to go out. But you can drive in the park, receive 
your intimate friends, live where you can watch the 
life around you, and keep up with the times without 
being in the swim ; and, most of all, you can give 
that poor, dear, old uncle of yours a chance to meet 
his cronies again.” 

Sylvia appeared to consent with much reluctance, 
and enlarged to Uncle Dan on the sacrifice she was 
making for his sake. 

The first few weeksof her life in town were terrible 
to her; her friends came to see her constantly, yet it 
was not like having one or the other of them in the 
house. Her uncle gladly returned to his old habits 
of life, and she was left much alone. Hitherto, she 
had sought for happiness in worldly triumphs, in the 
luxury of her surroundings, in entertainments, in 
dress, and in all the self indulgences and frivolities of 
a privileged class. She had carried to excess the 
worship of herself and the love of elegance and 
beauty. For a short time grief for her mother 
swallowed up every other feeling, and when the first 
spontaneous suffering was passed she had forced 
herself to mourn, and reproached herself for harbor- 
ing, even for an instant, any thought not associated 
with her loss ; but one day she discovered she had 
no more tears to shed. 

‘Htis all over now; I am incapable even of suffering,” 
she thought as she sank into a state of gloom and 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


121 


discouragement greater even than that she had felt in 
the first hours of her mourning. It was as if she had 
died also. What could she do ? How call up any 
emotion ? In what could she interest herself? 

Margaret devoted herself to charitable works; she 
had generously given up her life while still young to the 
furtherance of others^ happiness; and this renunci- 
ation of all which had made life desirable, in Sylvia^s 
opinion, had made a great impression on her. She had 
sufficient intelligence to appreciate the nobility of such 
conduct, and she determined to imitate Margaret, hop- 
ing that in good works she might find the happiness 
and peace of mind she so longed for. She became the 
patroness of one of the leading societies, and went 
about visiting the poor, dressed simply, and accom- 
panied by an elderly friend, an enthusiast in chari- 
table deeds. She undertook a pilgrimage through 
the hospitals, and asylums, the homes for the aged, 
and for abandoned children. 

It was a new world to Sylvia ; there she saw real 
suffering, and witnessed the agonies of the hopelessly 
ill, of helpless children, diseased from their birth; the 
dull misery of aged invalids tottering on the verge of 
the grave, uncomforted and unsupported by the hand 
of affection. She heard sad stories and saw sad 
sights. What she did not see in the hospital wards 
she imagined. She divined the horrors of the oper- 
ating room, and the fear, misery and pain of the 
unfortunate patient. Her sensitive nerves were sub- 
jected to too great a strain, and at last she fell ill 
and was obliged to remain in bed, suffering from the 


122 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


consequences of the painful experiences she had under- 
gone, dreaming by night of death under a hundred 
different and terrible forms ; but she was determined to 
persevere in her self-imposed task, and not to yield to 
the weakness of the flesh. When she had sufficiently 
recovered to go about again, she determined to become 
acquainted with a different kind of misery. She 
bravely climbed to the garrets of the poor, and pene- 
trated to the squalid, dirty homes of those who 
struggle for a maintenance on a few pence a day. 

She saw women aged and bent before their time, 
men fallen to the level of the brute, children in whom 
every trace of childhood had been obliterated by the 
blasting touch of want and vice. Home, love, 
infancy — all that she had hitherto seen through the 
golden haze of wealth — all that had seemed for her 
merely a source of joy and happiness — she now saw 
transformed in the biting air of poverty into a cause 
for tears, blasphemies and blows. The cold grates, 
ragged, scanty clothing, dirty beds and evil smelling 
rooms, filled her heart with pity and disgust; she 
spoke to the women kindly, but they shrank from her, 
while the men looked at her with suspicion, not 
unmixed with envy, hatred and malice. The sacred 
fire of charity was wanting; the subtle thread of 
sympathy which unites the rich and the poor was 
lacking in Sylvia. She pitied them, but they repulsed 
her. A kind look, a pressure of the hand, a tear — 
any of these is better than mere money, and does 
more good, making the recipient more willing to 
believe in the eternal justice of heaven and the 
brotherhood of mankind. Sylvia gave willingly and 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


123 


generously, but she could not utter the words of 
heartfelt sympathy that were needed to make her 
gifts a blessing. Her very soul seemed chilled, and, 
after having expended a large sum of money without 
feeling that she had healed a wound or assured the 
happiness of one solitary being, and without having 
experienced herself a single moment of satisfaction, 
she gave up visiting the poor. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep, 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? “ 

— Goldsmith. 


For sometitne past Sylvia had remarked that Miss 
Seymour was often preoccupied, and seemed to have 
an interest aside from her habitual ones ; and, though 
she had never felt the touch of love herself, she sus- 
pected that the tender passion was consuming her 
friend. 

Miss Seymour went a great deal into society, and 
gossip associated her name both with that of a ris- 
ing young lawyer and with a Frenchman, a civil i 
engineer by the name of Marc Chevalier, who had 
published a book much read and discussed in scientific 
circles, and who was the lion of the hour. | 

The young stranger being a close student did not j 
mingle much in the gay world, but at any reunion ] 
where Miss Seymour was likely to be seen he was j 
sure to put in an appearance. | 

Sylvia had observed that whenever Mr. Chevalier’s 1 
book was favorably criticised there was an unusual J 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


125 


glow on her friend^s face, and, hoping to become 
I acquainted with her secret if any existed, she one day 
I abruptly remarked : 

Oh, by the way ! T hear there is a prospect of Mr. 

I Chevalier's being sent out to take charge of some 
I engineering work in Southern California.^' 

Margaret was examining some lace, and only the 
pure outline of her profile could be seen. She replied 
without a falter in her usually calm voice ; 

“I do not know anything about it, but I think he 
would do well to accept. He is ambitious, and Fame 
has already proved an amiable mistress to him." 

‘‘Do you think he loves her better than any 
woman?" inquired Sylvia, managing to look 
straight into her friend's eyes. 

“From the little I know of him, I should judge so," 
responded Miss Seymour tranquilly. 

From that day Sylvia abandoned the idea that Mr. 
Chevalier had ever paid court to Margaret, or awak- 
ened in her any feeling warmer than friendship; and 
her conviction was strengthened by his acceptance of 
the position offered him in the West, and his imme- 
diate departure from New York. 

A few weeks after the above conversation Mar- 
garet announced that she and her father were both 
weary of New York, and had decided to return to 
Faversham. She invited Sylvia to accompany them, 
but Sylvia, remembering the depressing influence the 
house had on a former occasion exercised over her, 
declined the invitation, alleging that she could not 
leave her uncle. 


126 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Margaret smiled faintly, and accepted the excuse 
without comment. She understood her friend^s rea- 
sons perfectly, but was too generously sweet and 
unselfish to be either offended or wounded. 

Sylvia’s life was even more lonely when Margaret 
left town, and there was still another parting in 
store for her. 

One afternoon as she and Kate were returningfrom 
a drive in the park the latter broke out abruptly : 

‘‘Sylvia, I have something to tell you ! I have put 
it off as long as I could, because I knew you would 
not like it, and I did not wish to grieve you sooner 
than was necessary ; besides, as my mind was made 
up, I did not want to be bothered by your protesta- 
tions and arguments.’^ 

“Kate Lawrence, are you going to be married? 
Have you been carrying on a love affair with some 
impecunious genius without my knowledge? 

“No, it is not so bad as that.” 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“I am going to enter the New York training school 
for nurses! ” 

“Kate, are you crazy ! ” 

“No, I never was so sane in my life. I am tired of 
the hollowness of society, and I want something to 
do — real work to occupy my hands and brain.” 

“I should think,” said Sylvia loftily, “you might 
find work for your hands in your own home, and 
occupation enough for your brain in attending and 
reading up for all the different societies of which you 
are a member.” 

Kate shook her head. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


127 


‘‘There is no mantial work to be done at home/ ^ 
she said, “which trained servants cannot do better 
than 1. My mother is provoked with me because I 
do not care for society, and am not bent on making 
an ambitious marriage and doing her credit, as Alice 
has done. May is twenty, and dying to come out, 
but mother says she will not have three daughters in 
society at once. There seems to be no more prospect 
of EthePs marrying than of mine, yet unless mother 
gets one of us off her hands, poor May seems doomed 
to remain forever in the schoolroom.” 

“You know you could marry if you liked, Kate.” 

“Yes; I could marry old Mr. Gillig, who has plenty 
of money, chronic dyspepsia, and rheumatism; and 
who would like a good looking, well educated, intelli- 
gent young woman of respectable family to nurse and 
amuse him.“ 

“Then there is that good looking Mr. Armstrong, 
whom you always speak of in the highest terms, and 
who people say is very well off. And there is Mr. 
Beardsley, whose intellectuality you think so well of; 
you know either of them would marry you gladly. 

“ Yes, they would ; and either of them would make 
some woman a good husband.” 

“ Why should not you be that woman ? ” 

“Because I don^t love either of them one jot. I 
should not respect a man who, knowing I did not 
care for him, wanted to marry me, and I should not 
respect myself if I deceived him. No, Sylvia, I have 
been thinking about this for a long time, and I have 
studied every side of the question. I am in the way 
at home,” here Kate’s bright eyes grew misty for a 


128 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


moment, but she winked the tears resolutely away, 
“and I am too old fashioned to marry where 1 do 
not love.” 

“You know Alice would be glad to have you live 
with her ! There is no need of your working for y our 
living.^’ 

Kate continued earnestly: 

“I am too proud to accept charity even from my 
sister. If I w^ent to Alice it would be as governess or 
housekeeper. Vd earn my board and my clothing; 
and working for blood relations, who are too sensi- 
tive to admit that you do work for them, and who 
are bent on keeping up appearances as well as get- 
ting the most for their money, is the worst slavery 
on earth.’’ 

“But why need you work at all? You have a 
pleasant home, there certainly can be no necessity for 
it.” 

Sylvia waited for some moments for her friend’s 
reply, and Miss Lawrence seemed hesitating as to 
how much she should say. At last she spoke : 

“Mother would be horrified and angry if she knew 
I had taken you completely into my confidence. My 
going into the training school will be represented to 
the world as a freak, an act which was totally 
unnecessary and painful to every one’s feelings ; but 
the truth is, Sylvia, that financially, the Lawrence 
family are in a very bad way. My father did not 
leave a large fortune; but we have lived as if we 
owned a silver mine. I don’t blame my mother; she 
has been used to luxury all her life and did not know 
the value of money. At first she did not realize that 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


129 


she could uot afford to live as she did when father 
was alive. Then, when she saw that she was living 
beyond her means, she neither knew how to econo- 
mize, nor had the courage to forego her accustomed 
luxuries; nor to admit to her friends, who had 
always considered her wealthy, that she was com- 
paratively poor. She thought, too, that by giving 
us showy educations, dressing us well, and keeping 
up an appearance in society, shew^as doing what was 
best for her children ; and she hoped that we would 
make good marriages while we were yet young. 
Then, free from the expense and the responsibility of 
four daughters, she thought she would have enough 
left for her individual wants, and, as she could live 
first with one child and then with another, she would 
be relieved from the necessity of k-eeping up an estab- 
lishment. So far, Alice alone has realized her hopes. 
Ethel may yet do so, for I am sure she will accept 
her first eligible offer; and, if May could come out 
this summer while she is still so pretty and fresh, she 
runs a fair chance of catching a rich husband. We 
are near the end of our resources ; we have had to 
put down our carriage, — which n'early broke mother’s 
heart, — reduce our staff of servants to three, and we 
save and pinch wherever it is possible to do so with- 
out the world’s seeing it. Alice helps all she can; she 
is very g^erous and kind, and Mr. Rivers is a model 
husband and brother-in-law. But I can’t stand being 
dressed at his expense; and I can’t stand living in 
this way. I am determined to preserve my independ- 
ence and earn my own livelihood, and perhaps by 
and by I may be able to help the others.” 

9 


130 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Sylvia had listened to Kate’s story very quietly, 
but it was evident she was turning something over 
in her mind ; and as Kate concluded she impulsively 
clasped her hands. 

‘‘Why should you bury yourself for two 3 ^ears in 
that dreadful hospital ? ” she asked. “You will not 
earn anything during that time, and you will live a 
life of hardship and privation, deprived of all the lux- 
uries you have been accustomed to, surrounded by 
horrid people, and obliged to witness the most 
depressing and repulsive sights, with pain and suffer- 
ing constantly before your eyes. Believe me I know 
what hospitals are. I have been in them ! ” 

Kate laughed merrily. 

“Yes, dear, I know,” she said, “your experience 
was very painful, but such things don’t affect me as 
they do you. I feel for those who suffer, but the sight 
of pain does not upset me, and has nothing repulsive 
in it. I am sure I shall like nursing.” 

“Oh, do n’t do it, Kate! cometome! I am dreadfully 
lonely; I would give anything in the world for a sister. 
Be one to me and we will share everything alike 1 ” 

Kate pressed her hand warmly. “You are a dear, 
generous girl, Sylvia, but I cannot do it.” 

“Then come to me as companion. I will give you 
a salary, anything you like, and we will be as sisters. 
It would be much more unselfish of you to come to 
me; and I need you far more than the hospital people 
do. Anybody can be a nurse, but not everybody a 
friend. I am sure I want you more than anyone else, 
and I would be ver^^good, and try hard to make you 
napp3 . 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


131 


am sure you would/^ Kate responded, shaking 
her head a little sadly. ‘‘Yon would give me every 
luxury you could think of and overwhelm me with 
kindness, while I should feel like a selfish wretch, tak- 
ing everything and giving nothing. No, dear; as I 
told you in the beginning, my mind is made up. I 
thank 3 ^ou heartily for your offer, and appreciate the 
affection which prompted it. 1 will come to see you 
on my days out, tell you about the most interesting 
patients, and give you an opportunity of playingthe 
Is^dy bountiful to those poor unfortunates who most 
need help.” 

Sylvia said no more. She knew Kate well enough 
to understand that argument and entreaty were 
alike useless. She felt personally aggrieved by her 
friend’s decision, and dreadfully lonely and forlorn. 
It seemed as if everything was slipping away from 
her; her mother was dead, Louis far away, Margaret 
gone, and Kate going. She gave no sign of the con- 
flict within her, and forced herself to talk calmly dur- 
ing the remainder of the drive; but after she had left 
Kate at her own door she pulled down her veil and 
cried bitterly. 

Her position was a singular one. The sole con- 
troller of great wealth, independent, unmarried, 
young, yet having indulged in all kinds of unmaidenly 
fancies; having never yet accorded a single kiss; 
innocent, yet looked upon with suspicion; pure, but 
with a reputation already tarnished. She strove to 
appear independent and indifferent, asserting that 
she did not require affection, that she did not wish to 
marry, that she did not understand love, and was 


132 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


positive that she could never care for anyone ; but 
underneath all her affectation of indifference and 
strong mindedness an acute observer would have 
noticed a trace of sadness, and a slight tinge of bit- 
terness unconsciously betrayed itself in her conversa- 
tion. A terrible feeling of isolation and sadness grad- 
ually kept over her. Living in the midst of a gay 
city, she was shut out from all its pleasures by her 
mourning. A sense of unrest, an unconquerable 
desire for movement and excitement overwhelmed 
her, and one evening she startled her uncle out of his 
after-dinner somnolence by asking: 

“Uncle Dan, can you get ready to go to Europe 
next week?” 

“To Europe! Why should I go to Europe? ” 

“ Do n’t you want to go ? ” 

“ My dear Sylvia, I have been to Europe a num- 
ber of times, and I don’t like traveling in the 
summer, when there are such hordes of Americans 
abroad.” 

“Well, I am going,” said Sylvia with a quiet deter- 
mination,” and if you don’t wish to accompany me, 
I shall find some other chaperon.” 

Uncle Dan’s sense of duty was strong. He felt that 
he should have to go, but he determined to make one 
last effort in his own defense. 

“Let us wait until autumn, Sylvia. Europe is 
really very uncomfortable in summer; the hotels are 
so crowded. We should be far better off at home. 
We can keep the house filled with pleasant people, 
and have a very jolly time in a quiet way. There is 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


133 - 


nothing to prevent your having company and going 
out a little no w ; so you need not be lonely. Let us 
wait until autumn.’’ 

‘‘You are thinking,” said Sylvia coolly, seeming to 
look through and through the old gentleman with 
her great blue eyes, “that by putting me off for six 
months you will insure our remaining on this side of 
the Atlantic. You think I am full of fancies, and will 
change my mind, but I can’t stay here! I do n’t want 
to be quiet. I want change, and excitement, and a 
crowd! I shall die or go mad if I stay on here!” 

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and the last words 
ended in an hysterical cry. 

Mr. Gilchrist sprang up in alarm. 

“ Certainly, my darling, we will go if you wish it ! 
Don’t cry, my pet. I would do anything to make 
you happy ! I can be ready by Saturday if you say 
so.” 

“Yes, yes, let us go,” sobbed Sylvia. 

The following week’s edition of the society papers 
announced that Mr. and Miss Gilchrist had gone 
to Europe for an indefinite period. 


CHAPTER XV. 


*‘I am wearj" of days and hours, 

Blown buds of barren flowers, 

Desires, and dreams, and powers, 

And evei*ything but sleep.’' 

— Swinhume. 


Three years later Sylvia once more made her 
appearance in New York society, having spent the 
intervening time in Europe. 

Her position and her fortune were quite important 
enough to make it worth the world^s while to notice 
her; the result being that she was at the same time 
courted and criticised. Her manners and her desire for 
amusement led her to associate with the gayest and 
most frivolous, w^hile her deeper interests were really 
those of the serious minded, and so, let her appear in 
whatever society she might, she was always, in a 
moral sense, an outsider. She was in appearance 
far too much of a pleasure seeker not to antagonize 
those who were occupied with serious interests ; and 
her faults, real or imputed, repelled the one class, 
without attracting the other. 

She was said to have trifled with the affections of 
many men, to have wasted any amount of talent, to 
be without any kind of Christianity, to have many 

134 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


135 


friends warmly attached to her, and yet to be her- 
self incapable of any strong attachment; and this 
noticeable want in her of anything really lovable was 
rendered all the more evident by a peculiar charm of 
manner, which, for the time being, won every one^s 
admiration. Such was the universal impression of 
her, which, whether absolutely true or not, was at 
all events not wholly without foundation. 

She had been much admired and courted, often for 
her personal charms, often for her money, and she 
had unconsciously grown to believe that admiration 
was her just due; yet she was vskeptical regarding 
the sincerity of any affection offered her. The men 
who had been her avowed admirers were with- 
out exception vicious, adventurers, fortune-hunters, 
dreamers or rnereempty headed fops. She prided her- 
self on her cleverness in describing a hundred such indi- 
viduals, and in holding up to ridicule their conversa- 
tion, declarations and manners. In her conversation 
there was a biting sarcasm, not devoid of wit, but 
imbued with a reckless skepticism, which conveyed the 
impression of extreme levity. 

She was in the habit of saying of herself when ques- 
tioned as to why she had not accepted any of her many 
eligible offers: 

‘‘My not marrying is a matter very easily under- 
stood ; I am eccentric, fanciful, headstrong, and not 
altogether blind, and I have treated with contempt 
the men who have aspired to my hand.’^ 

The years spent in the gayest capitals of Europe 
surrounded by admirers and sycophants had left 


136 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


their impression on Sylvia’s character; theyhad sharp- 
ened her wit at the expense of others, and increased 
her knowledge of the world’s meanness and wicked- 
ness; to the eyes of her faithful friends she had 
greatly changed, and not for the better. She was accus- 
tomed to listening to falsehoods, and telling them; 
she was weary of such a life, yet saw no other open 
to her. There seemed nothing else to do; nothing 
but the same weary treadmill ever before her. She 
was sensible of a great void around her, but knew not 
how to fill it. 

The habitues of the Metropolitan opera house were 
greatly surprised one nigjlit to see Miss Gilchrist 
appear among them with the self-confident manner 
of a woman of the w^orld. Her uncle accompanied 
her as escort, not as chaperon. She seated herself in 
the front of her box and examined the audience with 
calm assurance. She wore a costume of black tulle, 
which set off her white satiny skin to the greatest 
advantage; her corsage was decollete m the extreme, 
and held in place over the shoulders by diamond 
clasps in lieu of sleeves. Her fair hair was dressed 
high, so as to reveal the perfect contour of her head and 
throat, her sole ornament being a diamond aigrette 
supporting a little black pompon. She attracted 
the attention of every one in the house, but remained 
impassible under the scrutiny of many eyes, secure 
in the knowledge of her own charms and in tire clas- 
sical lines of her figure. 

She appeared worthy of admiration even to those 
who had hitherto questioned her beauty; but the 
first involuntary tribute paid, the first movement 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


137 


of surprise at her unexpected appearance past, every- 
one suddenly remembered that she must be at least 
twenty-four or twenty-five, and all began to wonder 
whether the beauties so freely offered to admiration 
were real or artificial. 

But^as Sylvia was rich, clever and possessed of an 
assurance and freedom of manner which permitted a 
certain amount of liberty in her society, admirers 
were not slow in presenting themselves, and invita- 
tions poured in upon her from all sides. She was 
overwhelmed with flattery, attentions and compli- 
ments ; old admirers worshiped at her shrine anew, 
and fresh ones followed in their train. Forayearshe 
continued to lead a life of interrupted gaiety; then 
she wearied of it.- 

She found herself not infrequently yawning when it 
was time to array herself for ball or opera. Some- 
times, on evenings when she happened to be free, she 
would fall asleep on her lounge beside the fire oppo- 
site her uncle’s armchair, and the two would slumber 
tranquilly with Mr. Gilchrist’s favorite magazine, 
The Atlantic Monthly, lying neglected between them 
on the rug. 

This was usually the case when they were left alone ; 
they had nothing new to say to each other. The 
old man loved his niece fondly and Sylvia would 
hardly have known how to get on without him, yet 
she was so intimately acquainted with the old genffe- 
man’s repertoire that, when he made a remark, she 
found it unnecessary to interrupt her own train of 
thought in order to answer him, and they had long 


138 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


since relinquished all attempts to sustain a conversa- 
tion. Mr. Gilchrist thoroughly understood that he 
occupied the position of a mere necessary adjunct 
to Sylvia^s establishment, and he resigned himself with 
the silent, tranquil dignity habitual to him. 

Formerly, dressing had formed one of Sylvia^s chief 
pleasures; each day had brought to light some new 
personal charm, and added fullness of limb and har- 
mony of outline. She was perfectW aware that 
though her arms were slight they were exquisitely 
moulded, that a poet would find her rounded throat 
a fitting subject for a sonnet, and that the modest 
proportions of her bust rivaled the pure ereations of 
ancient art. The mirror had reflected her image in 
every shape and form, dressed, and undressed, envel- 
oped in filmy laces, or swathed in furs. 

She knew the effect to be achieved from different 
shades of white, the successful combination of rose 
color, or red, with black, the happy results of violet 
on a bright day, the charm of pale blue and pearl 
grey, and the services rendered by sealskin and sable. 
She could have dressed in the dark and made a suc- 
cessful toilet, but she was weary of the study of her- 
self, as of all else. She would open the piano and sing 
a song or two in the clear, highly cultivated voice 
which had been so much admired, then take up a 
book, only to throw it aside again with the feeling 
that she knew all it had to tell, and had read the 
same thing in different language a thousand times 
before. Nothing came spontaneously and from the 
heart; she suffered from an overpowering sadness, 
from an utter absence of enthusiasm ; she would have 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


139 


i sacrificed the rest of her life for one day of unalloyed 
happiness, but even simple contentment was want- 
ing. 

One evening in March, after a series of storms 
which had inundated the city and uprooted the trees 
in the park, Uncle Dan and Sylvia were seated alone 
in the library; for half an hour no remark had passed 
between them ; each one was absorbed in personal 
reflections, Mr. Gilchrist in retrospect, Sylvia with 
bitter prospective, when the door was thrown open 
and Miss Seymour suddenly appeared. 

Sylvia had not time to greet her before she felt Mar- 
garet in her arms, where she lay trembling and sob- 
bing like a child. When they begged her to tell the 
cause of her grief she was for some time incapable of 
uttering a word. 

The misfortune which had come to her was not dis- 
appointed affection, nor a bereavement for which 
time would console, but the destruction of all her 
hopes, a trouble which would grow more terrible day 
by day. The business in which Mr. Seymour^s money 
was invested had failed, leaving the father and daugh- 
ter in almost absolute poverty. 

Before her father Margaret had maintained a cour- 
ageous and smiling demeanor, insisting that matters 
could not be so hopeless as he thought, that they 
would surely be able to save something from the 
wreck ; but when, exhausted by anxiety, Mr. Seymour 
had retired to his own room, his daughter had rushed 
to Sylvia, feeling that she must have human sym- 
pathy, and unburden her overcharged heart. 


140 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Once Sylvia would not have been able to compre- 
hend the full extent of such a misfortune, but now 
she fully realized the worth and power of money, and 
her heart filled with pity for her friend. 

‘‘Are you sure that the accounts of your losses have 
not been exaggerated ? she asked. “You could not 
have had everything invested in the one business ? 

Margaret shook her head sorrowfully. 

“I am afraid suchis thecase,’’ she said; “the prop- 
erty at Faversham is mine, and I have a little money 
which my father invested for me long ago, and which 
has escaped the general wreck.’’ 

“ Then you are not absolutely penniless ! ” exclaimed 
Sylvia, a vision of Margaret installed in a cheap ten- 
ement house and arrayed in threadbare apparel fad- 
ing slowly away. 

“I shall sell the place at Faversham,” said Mar- 
garet, “as soon as a purchaser can be found; but I 
am afraid that will not be readily done, there is so 
little demand for property in that neighborhood.” 

She paused for a few moments, choked by her 
emotion. Sylvia caressed her affectionately, mur- 
muring encouraging words the while. 

“I don’t so much care for myself,” continued Mar- 
garet brokenly, “I am young and strong; I can do 
with very little, and I am certain that I could support 
myself, if necessary. It is for my father that I am so 
grieved; he is old and not strong, and at his age to 
change the habits of a lifetime, to forego all the lux- 
uries and comforts to which he has always been 
accustomed, is a terrible trial; and to give up our 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


141 


home in Faversham will break his heart; my mother 
died and is buried there, and the place is full of pre- 
cious memorics.^^ 

Mr. Gilchrist who had so far been a silent witness 
of the scene now rose, and, going to the chair into 
which Margaret had fallen in an attitude of hopeless- 
ness, he laid his hand kindly on her shoulder. 

‘‘Come, come, child!’’ said he cheerily, “you must 
not give way like this; matters are probably not in 
such a bad way as 3^our father believes. He was 
always inclined to take the gloomiest view of things. 
Affairs must be carefully investigosted, and I am sure 
when that is done you will find there is more left than 
you imagine.” 

“Oh, Mr. Gilchrist, do you really think so?” cried 
Margaret, a ray of hope illuminating her tear stained 
face ; then, relaxing into her former despondency, she 
added : 

“I am afraid it is hopeless; father seems perfectly 
crushed, and I fear he will never rally enough to 
investigate matters thoroughly. It takes a vigorous 
mind, a strong hand to save anything in a case like 
ours. I fear my father is no longer capable of it.” 

“Have you had no warning that such disaster was 
impending?” inquired Mr. Gilchrist. “Did your 
father know nothing of the affairs of Myers & Com- 
pany? ” 

“ I think he must have known that they were in 
difficulties for some time past, for he has seemed so 
anxious and troubled; but he never spoke of his busi- 
ness affairs to me, and never encouraged my ques- 
tioning him regarding financial matters. He always 


142 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


said wehad enough for all our requirements, and that 
I need not trouble my head about money.’’ 

Mr. Gilchrist looked serious. 

“I told him long ago how it would be,” he mut- 
tered, ‘‘but he would never listen to me; he would 
put all his eggs in one basket. 

Sylvia’s naturally generous instincts instantly sug- 
gested to her to go to her friend’s relief, and she 
placed her home, money — all that she possessed — at 
her disposal. She made the offer in all sincerity, 
without affectation, and with such touching sym- 
pathy and compassion in voice and manner, as to 
draw tears of tenderness from Uncle Dan’s eyes, and 
of heartfelt gratitude from Margaret’s. But, while 
her generosity touched the others deeply, their sense 
of pleasure in her magnanimity was not to be com- 
pared with the keen joy she herself experienced. 

She would willingly, at that moment, have shared 
all she possessed with Margaret, in order to restore 
to her the happiness, and peace of mind, of which fate 
had so cruelly robbed her. The sight of her calm, 
self-contained Margaret, in tears and despair, 
appealed strongly to her. The sublime joy of lending 
a helping hand awoke within her; her heart no 
longer lay dull and heavy in her bosom, but woke, 
stirred by an indefinable sense of happiness. 

She embraced Margaret fondly, her face illuminated 
with the glow of pure joy ; she was so simply unself- 
ish, generous and kindly, that she did not appear the 
same Sylvia, the cynical, egotistical, calculating 
woman whom the world knew. But her enthusiasm 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


143 


was chilled by Miss Seymour’s cold reasoning; Mar- 
garet, though deeply moved, calmly pointed out to 
her the utter impossibility of accepting such an offer. 
Her father, broken though he was, was too proud to 
permit it; they must bear their misfortunes as best 
they could, though the knowledge of her friend’s gen- 
erous proposal would be a great pleasure to them 
both. She announced that she should immediately 
seek for something to do, and at the mention of Mar- 
garet’s having to work, Sylvia’s feeling of pity 
increased and she returned to the attack, entreating 
Margaret, if she would not accept anything else, at 
least to share her home as a sister. 

It was with some difficulty that Margaret freed 
herself from her friend’s clinging arms; but when she 
departed she carried away with her a feeling of deep 
gratitude and consolation. 

For the next few weeks S5dvia lived only for Mar- 
garet. She was continually at her side striving to 
keep up her friend’s spirits, and greatl}^ surprised at 
her courage and resignation, for after that first night, 
Margaret gave no further sign of weakness; and 
amazed at invariably finding Mr. Seymour still 
intrenched behind his impenetrable dignity. She was 
astonished at their courage, and admired it, though 
she felt sadness again stealing into her heart with 
the knowledge of her own powerlessness to aid 
them. 

‘‘How unfortunate I am! ” she reflected. “I can- 
not do even a little good, or give one proof of the sin- 
cerity of my friendship.” 


144 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


The emptiness of her life struck her with renewed 
force. Her wealth seemed useless since she was 
unable to benefit anyone by it. She compared her 
lot with Margaret’s, and almost envied her. The 
latter had promptly decided upon a course of action; 
she had persuaded her father to live on the income 
derived from the small investments long since made 
in her name, while she had accepted a position as 
companion to an invalid relative. It had required 
time and diplomacj^ to induce Mr. Seymour to con- 
sent to this arrangement, but Margaret’s quiet deter- 
mination, aided by the knowledge of his own physical 
inability to take an active part in life’s battles, had 
forced the proud old man to yield to his daughter’s 
wishes ; when an unexpected event wrought a mate- 
rial change in all their plans. 

Marc Chevalier had returned to New York, and 
made a formal proposal for Miss Seymour’s hand. 
The three years which he had spent in the West had 
not been wasted ; he had made his mark as an engi- 
neer, and an important and lucrative position had 
been offered him in New York; he was now in a posi- 
tion to support a wife, and, owing to Margaret’s 
changed circumstances, could ask for her hand with- 
out dread of being deemed a fortune hunter. 

Margaret was radiantly happy. She was to marry 
the man of her choice, and was not to be separated 
from the father to whom she was devoted. 

Sylvia was impressed by such a proof of faithful 
and disinterested love, but it produced no good 
effect. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


145 


When she awoke in the silence of the .night it was 
to a sense of terrible loneliness and to bitter question- 
ing. When she thought of Marc Chevalier she felt a 
keen pang at her heart ; it was not love for him, 
neither was it envy of Margaret’s happiness ; it was 
the painful realization that the years were slipping 
away from her without leaving one lasting joy. 

“Margaret,” said she one day reproachfully, “you 
have not been frank with me ; you never told me that 
you loved any one. Why did you not confide in 
me? ” 

“Because I knew that you had never loved,” 
answered Miss Seymour smiling, “and I knew that, 
with all your affection for me, you would not be able 
to understand my feelings.” 

“You could not have felt much confidence in my 
affection,” she said, “if you believed me incapable of 
sympathising with your joys or sorrows.” 

“You must not take it that way, dear,” answered 
Margaret in her gentle way. “I did not doubt your love 
for me, but I knew you had never cared for any man, 
and I dreaded ridicule. I thought you would feel noth- 
ing but contempt for a woman who had given her heart 
to a man who apparently cared nothing for her.” 

“There is something lacking in me!” exclaimed 
Sylvia bitterly, “I am unable to convince even those 
who pretend to love me of the sincerity of my affec- 
tion. I attract only the vicious, and the vain ; and 
I am wretchedly unhappy 1 ” 

Then, suddenly changing her tone, she continued 
with such irony in her voice that Margaret stared 
at her. 

10 


146 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘I could be married on the same day as you if I 
chose; and such an advantageous marriage!'’ 

''Do you mean the Marquis of Ormsby ? " 

"Yes; his aristocratic parents, seeing that their 
imbecile son is in danger of falling into the clutches of 
an adventuress, and knowing him to be crippled 
with debts, are anxious to get him safely married. 
He is so vicious that no respectable family in England 
would receive him, but we Americans will accept any 
amount of faults if the mountain of vices be crowned 
with a coronet. In their hearts they disdain an 
American alliance, but they appreciate our dollars, 
and so their son has been permitted to offer me his 
heart and hand. It is of no importance to the mar- 
quis and marchioness whether their son continues to 
court the dancer in the Gaiet}" company, whom he 
followed to America, or not; what they wish is to 
secure for him a rich wife, who will pay his debts, and 
prevent the possibility of the three flowers in their 
coronet gracing the brow of the Terpsichorean 
beauty. Oh I* it is an honorable position which is 
offered me! ” 

"I am glad you feel as you do, Sylvia — that you 
are not one of those who would sell their very souls 
for a title! " 

"Nine times out of ten, when we imagine ourselves 
married for love we are in reality chosen from far 
different motives. I envy you, Margaret; you can- 
not doubt your lover's sincerity! " 

"Because your wealth has laid you open to the 
attentions of adventurers and fortune hunters you 
must not become bitter, S^dvia. There is another 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


147 


class of men in the world; there are others like my 
Marc; dearly as I love him, I do not flatter myself 
that I have secured the only true man in existence. 
It grieves me to see you so skeptical; you seem to have 
lost faith in everyone and everything; you complain 
because you do not understand what love is, but you 
never will while you scoff at it.^^ 

‘‘Where am I to learn what it is like? I only know 
it as portrayed by the marquis and his ilk — noble 
delineators of the tender passion ! You reproach me 
because I have never loved, because I am incredulous. 
Whose fault is it? You would not like to see me give 
my heart to any of the men who have/zonored me by 
their attentions — creatures whom you hold in con- 
tempt. What would you like me to do ? Run about 
the world, like Diogenes, hunting an honest man?’^ 
“You cannot do that, of course,’’ returned Mar- 
garet, smiling at Sylvia’s excitement, “ and I grant 
that your experience has been enough to unsettle 
your faith in disinterested affection; still — ” 

Sylvia placed her hand over her mouth. 

‘ ‘ Be still ! ’ ’ she said ; ‘ ‘any thing you could say would 
be of no value, and weigh nothing against my expe- 
rience. One must be either a saint or a sinner to suc- 
ceed in this world; in the first case. Heaven looks 
after your interests ; in the second, you help j^ourself. 
I am not either; I am a wretched hybrid; you may 
accept that as the true cause of my unhappiness.” 

Miss Seymour was about to protest when Mr. Gil- 
christ entered the room. Sylvia ran to him and 
threw her arms around his neck. 


148 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


) 


‘^Here is my only sincere lover !” she cried ; ‘‘my 
fond, obedient adorer, who never contradicts me, or 
acts contrary to mv desires, who is faithfulness 
. itself/^ 

She put her hands on the old man’s shoulders, and, 
holding him off, looked quizzically into his kindly 
face. 

“Tell me, are you not the devoted admirer of your 
wonderful niece? ” she asked, in a voice where emo- 
tion pierced through assumed gaiety. 

“I am indeed! ” responded her uncle heartily. 

Sylvia kissed him on both cheeks, feeling in her 
heart such intense pity for herself, that she would 
willingly have exchanged her own life, for the few 
years still remaining to her cheery, placid old uncle. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


“ I have a smiling: face, she said, 

I have a jest for all I meet ; 

I have a garland for my head, 

And all its flowers are sweet. 

And so yoa call me gay, she said. 

Grief taught me this smile, she said. 

And wrong did teach this jesting bold.” 

— Mrs, Browning, 


Margaret’s marriage was celebrated without 
pomp or ceremony in the parlor other father’s house; 
the last family gathering which its ancient walls were 
to behold, for the old home had found a purchaser, 
and it was to be handed over to strangers imme- 
diately after the bride’s departure. Only intimate 
friends were invited to witness the ceremony. The 
young couple were radiantly happy, and the wed- 
ding, simple as it was, seemed to Sylvia the prettiest 
she had ever seen. ^ 

They were to pass their honeymoon in Europe, and 
when Margaret, beaming with happiness, bade Sylvia 
good-bye, she seemed to have lost the reserve which 
usually characterized her, and spoke freely and 
unconstrainedly of her present contentment and 
bright anticipations, urging Sylvia, if she would taste 
real happiness, to make haste to wed. 

149 


150 


A COMMON MISTAKI^. 


Sylvia watched the carriage which bore her 
friends to the steamer until it turned a corner and 
was lost to sight. 

‘‘I am left all alone/’ she said, turning to her uncle 
and forcing herself to smile, but feeling as if the blood 
was frozen in her veins. 

Left alone, as she had said, for she had no friends. 
It is true that she went continually into society, but 
she was weary of the world where she knew herself 
to be in the midst of hostile critics, who commented 
maliciously on each word she uttered, and on every 
thoughtless action into which her impulsive nature 
betrayed her. They commented all the more severely, 
because she seemed, with her assurance and freedom 
of manner, to deliberately set the laws of society at 
defiance. 

The evening after Margaret’s wedding Sylvia 
attended a formal and tiresome dinner; she had just 
returned and wearily thrown aside her wraps when 
Mr. Ballantine was announced. He was a frequent 
visitor at the house, and often called late, evidently 
preferring to find Sylvia alone. As he entered she 
partially arose from her seat by the drawing-room 
fire; then, as if this was too much trouble or an 
unnecessary formality, she sank back again, motion- 
ing him to take a chair opposite her. 

Ennui, the implacable companion of Sylvia’s exist- 
ence, forced her lips to part in a yawn which she did 
not try to conceal. 

Still bored and weary of life?” asked Mr. Ballan- 
tine. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


151 


“Yes, mortally weary of it; but I do not wish to 
do like the conspirators in Mme. Angot.^^ 

“And still in earnest when you assert that you do 
not wish to marry ? ” 

“Still in serious earnest. 

Mr. Ballantine smiled. Since Sylvia^s return from 
Europe they had been much together and learned to 
understand each other fairly well. They could often 
divine one another’s meaning, but they resembled 
each other too closely, and this similarity produced 
a feeling which frequently resembled antagonism 
rather than sympathy. 

In the innermost recesses of her heart Sylvia enter- 
tained a fervent admiration for the lawyer’s mental 
qualities, and a firm belief in his honor and integrity; 
but she had been so often deceived that skepticism 
had become second nature to her, and it was impos- 
sible to throw aside her habitual mantle of distrust, 
even with those in whom she had the most confi- 
dence. She had kept a mental record of all that had 
passed between them, but she was still unable to 
determine what his true feeling toward her was. 

For sometime they remained seated opposite each 
other apparently absorbed in their individual 
thoughts, but eyeing each other sixrreptitiously ; 
both skeptical and proud. 

“Mr. Ballantine you are so true a skeptic your- 
self that you ought to believe me when I affirm that 
I have confidence in no one.” 

“If I believed you lo should already have made a 
concession to my skepticism. Nevertheless, I do 
believe you now.” 


152 


A COMMON MISO'AKE. 


‘^Why to-day instead of yesterday?” 

Ballantine rose and leaned against the chimney. 

‘‘May I smoke?” he asked. 

Then, as Sylvia nodded, he lighted a cigar and 
remained for some moments watching the rings of 
blue smoke as they curled slowly upward. 

Sylvia moved restlessly. 

“Well, are you not going to answer my question ? ” 
she asked impatiently. 

“ My dear girl, you are like the child who began 
to cry ‘wolf ^ when there was no beast to be seen. 
To-day I am willing to make any concession, because 
I am convinced that you at last have become as 
thoroughly skeptical as you have long claimed 
to be.” 

They were silent for an instant; Sylvia played 
with her rings with a visible expression of annoyance 
on her face. 

“Then you think that in the past I lied,” she said 
slowly, “and that underneath all my assertions of 
skepticism I still cherished some faith.” 

“Yes ; and am I not right ? ” 

“Perhaps. Is it disappointed affection which 
made you a doubter, Mr. Ballantine? ” 

“No.” 

“You are like me, then; I have never loved.” 

“Neither have I.” 

Again there was a silence, that calm silence, free 
from embarassment which can only exist between 
intimates. Sylvia was almost hidden in the shadow 
thrown by the lace overhanging the lamp; her small 
white hands which lay clasped on her lap were visible. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


153 


Ballantitie biting the end of his half finished cigar, 
watched those hands with a strange expression in 
his eyes. 

“I did not see yon at Mrs. Grave’s foaimasgrie, 
Sylvia remarked presently. 

‘‘No;” with a disdainful movement of his shoul- 
ders, “I am sick of balls. Did you enjoy yourself ? ” 

“Immensely.” There wasa toneof sarcasm in her 
reply. “Does that astonish you ? ” 

“No; not at all. Did you go with your Uncle Dan?” 

“No. With Mrs. Berrisford.” 

Ballantine frowned, and repressed an exclama- 
tion of impatience. 

“What was your costume? ” he asked. 

“That of a Swedish peasant bride. I thought I 
would like to be dressed as a bride for once.” 

‘ As the costume committed you to nothing! ” 

“ Exactly,” responded Sylvia dryly, striving to see 
Ballantine’s face clearly in the dim light. 

“ What was Mrs. Berrisford’s costume? ” 

“She did not name it, but I took it to be Charity, 
as she had apparently been so generous with her rai- 
ment as to leave herself nothing to wear.” 

Ballantine laughed. 

“She has gone off dreadfully in her looks,” he said; 
“somehow I fancy that Britton’s sudden desertion 
told on her; I think she really liked the fellow, and 
his devotion to her was evident. I have always 
wondered what they quarreled over.” 

“ Yes ? Have you ? ” said Sylvia indifferently. 

Ballantine looked at her sharply. 

“You know what it was,” he said. 


154 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘What makes you think so? 

“Your manner whenever the subject has been dis- 
cussed in your presence, Britton^s evident gratitude 
and affection for you, and Mrs. Berrisford^s fear of 
you.’^ 

“You are a keen observer,” remarked Sylvia 
calmly. 

“Yes, I flatter myself that I can see as far as most 
people,” responded Ballantine coolly, as he lit another 
cigar. “You know the secret, whatever it may be.” 

“Have you met Mrs. Severance since her return? ” 
inquired Sylvia, changing the subject. 

“No; we have not met since her marriage. Does 
she resemble her mother? ” 

“She does, and she does not; she is quite as hand- 
some, but her manner is not so distant. She is more 
cordial and far more vSympathetic.” 

“She is reported to be very cordial — to men,” 
observed the lawyer. 

Sylvia leaned forward and shook her finger warn- 
ingly. 

“That is very nasty of you,” she said. “Confess 
now that you have heard that Eva and I have struck 
up a friendship, and that you are amazed at the idea 
of Miss Gilchrist’s becoming intimate with one whose 
doings have been so severely criticised.” 

“By no means. I assure you that no act of yours 
could astonish me.” 

“Now you are more like your usual self. You must 
think I am a monster of perversity.” 

Ballantine regarded her with a look of calm obser- 
vation, but made no answer. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


155 


hear that you were among the gayest of the gay 
at the French ball,” she said abruptly, ‘‘and after 
hearing so much of your evident enjoyment of that 
festivity, I am a trifle surprised to hear you assert 
that you are sick of balls; though doubtless Mrs. 
Gravels entertainment was a tame affair compared 
with the one you honored with your presence.^' 

Mr. Ballantine remained silent. 

Lowering her voice which trembled slightly, Sylvia 
asked, 

“Tell me, are the women who frequent the French 
balls the sort of women you prefer? ” 

“Why should you care to know, Sylvia, since you 
are so indifferent to love yourself? ” 

Sylvia was unprepared for this answer, but it 
pleased her. She would have been disappointed had 
he protested as all other men did. 

She had thrown her head back against the carved 
back of the chair so that his view of her face was 
foreshortened, showing the delicate outline of her 
uplifted chin, and the marble whiteness of her throat 
against the velvet cushions. 

Ballantine, as he looked at her, could not help 
thinking that the years had left but little impression 
on her face ; the expression of her mouth was a trifle 
harder perhaps, but her complexion still retained the 
freshness of early youth, and the eyes their old ques- 
tioning candor. He sighed faintly under his heavy 
moustache, thinking she was worthy of a better fate 
than to become the wife of such a man as the Mar- 
quis of Ormsby, and wondering if she intended to 


156 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


marry his lordship to avoid bearing the sobriquet of 
old maid ; as to whether she loved the marquis or 
not he never questioned. 

At this point in his reflections, a mischievous smile 
played round the corners of his mouth which Sylvia 
was not slow to perceive. 

What are you thinking of? ’’ she asked. 

Nothing.^’ 

‘‘That is not true; your mind was never a void.” 

He laughed, and continued to smoke calmly. 

“Perhaps you are reflecting on the unconvention- 
ality of our present position; a woman not yet old; 
a man considered fascinating; time, midnight; soli- 
tude unbroken. What a superb field for scandal ! ” 

“You are right,” said her companion rising. 

Something in his manner, and inflection of his 
voice, recalled to Sylvia their conversation held on 
the balcony four years previous, the night of her 
mother’s death; and a sudden tenderness welled up in 
her heart. 

“Mr. Ballantine, will you always be my friend?” 
she asked; “you know I believe in friendships, and 
your’s is dear to me.” 

“I will do my best not to disabuse you of your 
illusion.” 

His voice was grave but gentle. He stood before 
the fire stroking his beard with his strong, nervous 
hand, his eyes fixed searchingly on Sylvia’s face. 
Suddenly he turned, and crossing the room picked up 
a frame containing a collection of celebrated beauties 
and actresses, pictures which Sylvia had purchased 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


157 


simply because they were beautiful. Their very photo- 
graphs appeared conscious of their own superb 
beauty, and each smiling face seemed to gaze straight 
into the beholder^s eyes with a look of mingled 
coquetry and boldness. 

Sylvia followed Mr. Ballantine across the room, 
and, standing a little behind him, peered over his 
shoulder at the photographs. 

‘‘Look at this one! ’’ she said, “is she not lovely?’^ 
The lawyer half turned his head ^nd looked at 
Sylvia. 

“ Yes; he answered, “no one can deny that she is 
pretty, dangerously so.” 

Sylvia, her eyes still fixed on the photographs, con- 
tinued : 

“What exquisite shoulders the creature has I Ah, 
what would I not give to be an acknowledged 
beauty! ” 

“To what purpose?” 

“ Perhaps, then, secure in the power of my charms, 
I might love. Before I give my heart I must be cer- 
tain that I have no peer among women, so as to feel 
assured that the idea of comparing me to any other 
women would never enter my lover’s mind. But to 
be one of a crowd, rank secondary, perhaps be a fifth, 
sixth or thirtieth woman that a man has courted, 
have to own that I am only loved to the same extent 
as the others, to acknowledge that I can only give as 
much as has already been bestowed by my predeces- 
sors, dread having a successor who may far out- 
rival me — Oh ! I can never explain how I feel on this 
subject! ” 


A COMMON MIST A KB. 


lo8 


She pressed one hand on her heart, and a look of 
such weariness passed over her face that it suddenly 
appeared old and drawn. 

‘'Sometimes, I fancy, ’’ she continued, “that per- 
haps I have been very near loving, without being 
aware of it.” 

Mr. Ballantine shook his head. 

“Do not let an such idea as that possess your soul 
for a moment; you will not make any mistake, 
Sylvia; you will recognize love when it comes.” 

Looking at Ballantine coquettishly she asked: 

“Are you quite sure of that?” 

An expression of anger passed over his face. 

“No;” he answered impatiently, “I am sure of 
nothing where you are concerned! You have made 
acarnival of love, and have played at loving so often 
under the blazing calcium light of mock affection — 
you have so long mistaken its garish glitter for love’s 
pure radiance, and are so blinded by its glare — that 
it is possible you would not recognize the soft, efful- 
gent rays of true love if they shone upon you.” 

Sylvia was amazed at his warmth, and a little 
vexed. She was proud of her triumphs, but did not 
like to be called a flirt. 

“ Do you mean to insinuate,” she said drawing her- 
self up to her full height, and darting a look of anger 
at her companion, “that I am incapable of any true 
affection?” 

Ballantine returned her look steadily; there was 
an answering gleam in his usually cold eyes. 

“I mean,” he answered, “that you are frittering 
away your affections; that you lead men on to love 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


159 


you, and fool them to the top of their bent; that 
your actions are those of a heartless coquette; that 
in the struggle for these triumphs, which give you 
but a transitory joy, 3^ou are wasting your life.^^ 

For a moment there was silence between them ; the 
lamp from under its fanciful drapery shed a fitful ra}^ 
around, revealing the man’s face, resolute and calm, 
the woman’s tremulous and angry. 

Mr. Ballantine was the first to speak. 

‘‘I am taking too great a liberty,” he said, ‘^but I 
cannot bear to see you so dissatisfied, and to know 
that you are misusing the noble gifts with which nat- 
ure has so generously endowed you ; for underlying 
all your frivolities, Sylvia, there are splendid quali- 
ties.” 

‘‘You are treating me as people do children; you 
gave me a bitter dose, now you offer a sugarplum to 
take away the bad taste.” 

“You are mistaken,” he responded seriously, “lam 
speaking only the truth ; our long-standing friend- 
ship must be the excuse for my frankness.” 

Sylvia smiled rather sadly and held out her hand. 

“I have nothing to forgive; I am only thankful to 
know that I have one honest friend.” 

Ballantine took her hand and held it so closely that 
when he released it the mark of her rings was left on 
the soft flesh, remarking which, he said somewhat 
bitterly: 

“It seems that with the best intentions I am cruel, 
when I only wish to be kind.” 

“You are strong,” Sylvia responded quietl}^ “and 
the strong are usually merciless to the weak,” 


160 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Mr. Ballantine's whole expresvsion changed and 
softened. 

‘‘I wish my strength could be of somje support to 
you,” he said so tenderly that Sylvia looked up in 
surprise. 

‘'You must not think that I am offended,” she 
answered gently, ''I appreciate your friendship too 
highly for that.” 

The lawyer’s brows contracted, and a look of dis- 
appointment overshadowed his face. 

“You can always count upon— my friendship,”^ he 
responded quietly. 

“Thanks; you have given me a great deal to medi- 
tate upon.” 

Her voice had resumed its usual sarcastic intona- 
tion, as if she dreaded appearing sentimental. 

“Good-night,” said Ballantine turning to go, 
“sleep well.” 

“My nights are always good; I sleep like a dor- 
mouse,” she responded lightly. “Good-night! ” 

As the portiere fell behind Ballantine’s retreating 
figure Sylvia returned to her former position by the 
fire and dropped wearily into her chair, her face look- 
ing pale and drawn in the firelight. She felt reluc- 
tant to forsake the room where the mingled perfume 
of flowers and tobacco left an impression of compan- 
ionship. An armchair looking as if recently occupied, 
a little heap of ashes in a tray, was all that remained 
to her of Ballantine’s presence save the sting which 
his words had left. 

“I wonder if what he claims is true,” she thought ; 
“if it is because I have played wdth love that I am 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


161 


unable to retain any lasting impression from passion? 
Is it lor that that I feel only idle fancies, a passing 
inclination for a man’s society, a fleeting affection, 
which flares up like a bonfire and as soon burns out, 
leaving an unsightly mass of charred hopes, and cal- 
cinated dreams? Or is the fault with the men, and 
not with me? Is it not because those who have 
courted me have been so vain and shallow, or so evi- 
dently enamored of my money rather than myseh? 

“If such a man as Paul Ballantine had ever loved 
me, a man whose position socially and financially 
put him beyond the reach of my suspicions, and ren- 
dered his disinterestedness unquestionable, a man 
whose strength, integrity and intellect 1 could respect, 
had ever sought my heart, I could have loved him ; 
but it has been the weak, the dissolute, the mer- 
cenary, who have asked for my love.” 

She sat for some time looking into the dying fire, 
reading in the coals the story of her life; striving to 
discover what she had been put into the world for, 
and what the future held in store. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“O, that men’s ears should be 
To counsel deaf, but not to flattery ! ” 

— Shakespeare. 


The indpient intimacy between Sylvia and Mrs. 
Severance grew apace. She had lost her dearest 
friends, those who had been the companions of her 
childhood, for Margaret Chevalier no longer went 
into society, and, in the egotism of her happy home 
life, neglected all other claims. Sylvia still entertained 
a warm affection for her, but there no longer seemed 
any affinity between them, and, while Mr. Chevalier 
always treated her with marked courtesy, there was 
a something underl^dng his polite manner, which 
Sylvia felt to be disapproval. Kate Lawrence was 
absorbed in the vocation she had chosen, and only 
visited Sylvia at rare intervals; and between the 
earnest, hard-working nurse and the worldly butter- 
fly there was a continually deepening gulf. 

Sylvia knew she had no longer any friends; her vis- 
iting list was an extensive one; a pile of invitations 
lay constantly on her writing desk; she was still 
courted and sought after; her drawing-room was 
thronged with men, her entertainments successful; 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


163 


yet she was conscious that below this surface popu- 
larity was an undercurrent of censure and condemna- 
tion. Had she been poor and without an assured 
position she would have been mercilessly cut ; and 
she hated and despised the people who continued to 
receive her and’ accept herhospitality, while they har- 
bored the meanest suspicions, and accused her of the 
gravest misdemeanors. 

None of the people who frequented her society inter- 
ested her. She knew the weak side of each one, and 
read them clearly, without the shadow of an illusion. 
Men discussed every topic in her drawing room, for 
Sylvia affected great freedom of thought; she herself 
questioned them regarding the scandal of the day, 
the habits of the demi-monde, and any savory law- 
suits which happened to claim the public attention. 
Naturally such freedom of speech, such a throwing 
aside of all maidenly reserve, held out encouragement 
to men, and Sylvia not unfrequently found herself in 
an embarrassing position. She had comprehended 
very soon after her introduction into society the 
important place which a clever, unscrupulous, ele- 
gant and fashionable woman holds there. Only, in 
her anxiety to occupy and draw advantage from this 
position, she overlooked one most important fact— 
the immense gulf which separates the married woman 
from the young girl. She failed to discern that much 
which is permitted in the former, is condemned in the 
latter. She did not realize what freedom of conduct, 
and assurance of position comes to a woman through 
the medium of a plain gold ring. 


164 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


She thought that her social standing and wealth 
were sufficient to insure her independence of action, 
and imagined herself strong enough to overrule secu- 
lar prejudices. She began to understand what a 
serious mistake she had made only when the friends 
of her girlhood dropped away from her, and she real- 
ized the impossibility of filling their places ; saw that 
she was received readily as an acquaintance, but res- 
oluteh" excluded from all intimacy. The challenge 
which she threw down to society had been accepted, 
and the war waged fast and furious, with smiles and 
polite phrases on the lips of the contestants, honey in 
their voices, and hate and slander in their hearts. 
Sylvia would have died rather than acknowledge 
herself defeated ; yet she suffered from her isolation; 
she longed for feminine friendship, and it was this 
need of a woman’s companionship which led her to 
welcome with effiision the proffered affection of Eva 
Severance 

Mrs. Severance was a singularly attractive looking 
woman with a slim, serpentine gracefulness, bright 
sparkling eyes, beautifully full, red lips, and a viva- 
cious manner. Years spent in the refinedly dissi- 
pated atmosphereof Viennese society, and the advan- 
tages of travel, had given to Mrs. Severance the 
piquante seductiveness of an exotic. She was a more 
refined, more elegant, more accomplished woman of 
the world than when she had left New York; but to the 
eye of an astute observer there was a false ring about 
her. She moved, spoke, and laughed in away pecul- 
iar to herself. Her perfumes were unlike those used 
by other women; her toilets showed a daring 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


165 


onginalty; her manner, if somewhat bold, was 
correct ; the position of the Severance family was 
such that she was received cordially in the most 
exclusive circles, and when the occasion arose she 
w^as capable of asserting herself with the manner of a 
woman who never permitted any obstacle to stand 
in her way. Her friendship and sympathy was to 
Sylvia like a green oasis in the arid, monotonous 
desert of her existence. 

The two met daily, and were to be seen together 
everywhere; their intimacy made such rapid strides 
that they were soon initiated into the mysteries of 
each other’s toilets, but they had not arrived at that 
state when jealousy could come between them. 

They planned to spend the summer together; and 
Sylvia was to accompany Mrs. Severance when she 
returned to Vienna, where her friend assured her she 
would enjoy life far better than in America, as she 
would be in a society less restricted in its views, 
and more capable of appreciating both her beauty 
and her cleverness. She frequently spoke of her own 
social triumphs in the Austrian capital, her eyes 
fairly blazing with excitement as she recounted her 
conquests. 

Mr. Ballantine once remarked ‘‘that her eyes 
betrayed twenty years of love for men and ten for 
Heaven.” 

Sylvia, vexed at such a criticism, declared him a 
censorious skeptic whom no one could please; assert- 
ing that Mrs. Severance was the most accomplished 
woman to be met with in the two worlds. 


166 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Several months had elapsed sinee Sylvia had met 
Margaret, and when they did eneounter eaeh other, it 
almost seemed as if Mrs. Chevalier strove to avoid 
her. Sylvia hardly believed sueh a thing possible, 
but determining to put her faint suspieiontothe test, 
went one afternoon to her friend’s home. 

A ehill foreboding fell upon her even on the thresh- 
old, for instead of being requested to go up to Mrs. 
Chevalier’s own sitting-room as was habitual, 
she was ceremoniously ushered into the drawing- 
room. 

“I have called to take you to task; you never 
come to see me now!” she said, as Margaret 
entered. 

have a great deal to do, and am very busy,” 
answered Margaret evasively. 

Busy allowing yourself to be worshiped, I pre- 
sume. I don’t blame your husband for wishing to 
keep you to himself, but he is not always at home.” 

^‘lam busy about the future; and I do not feel 
equal to going out much.” 

Ah! ” said Sylvia with a little sarcastic smile; a 
smile which she had acquired lately, and which was 
hard and forced, and made a deep line between her 
lips and chin. 

And you,” said Mrs. Chevalier, after a moment’s 
hesitation, ^’you are always with Mrs. Severance.” 

Yes; I have no other friend; they have all aban- 
doned me.” 

‘‘And you,” said Margaret, ignoring the implied 
reproach ; “ ought in your turn to abandon her.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


167 


exclaimed Sylvia, ‘‘my suspicions were cor- 
rect, and you too have turned against me; you are 
as faithless as the rest.’^ 

Margaret flushed and the tears sprang to her 
eyes. 

“Do not think that,’^ she said gently, “lam as 
fond as ever of you, Sylvia! 

“Your conduct does not uphold your assertion I 
Come, Margaret, tell me truly; what is the cause 
of your avoidance of me 

Mrs. Chevalier twisted her hands together, turned 
from red to white, and looked as though she wished 
the earth would open and swallow her up. She 
attempted several times to speak but seemed unable 
to do so. 

“Well!'^ said Sylvia impatiently, “of old you did 
not find it so difficult to answer me.’^ 

Mrs. Chevalier took Sylvia’s hands and held them 
closely. 

“You put me in a very difficult position, “she said, 
“for I hardly know how to explain my apparent 
neglect, without representing others who are dear to 
me in a false light.” 

“Oh ! ” said Sylvia, drawing away her hands, “I 
understand; the irreproachable and immaculate 
Marc does me the honor to disapprove of me! ” 

“You must not blame my husband, Sylvia; he does 
not know you as I do, and, with his French ideas 
regarding the conduct of young women, he misunder- 
stands you.” 

“While you,” cried Sylvia, hotly, “you allow your- 
self to be guided entirely by him, and influenced by 


168 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


his views. Our old friendship counts for nothing, 
and because this man, who but a few months ago 
was a stranger to you, condemns me, you forsake 
me!’^ 

‘'I assure you, Sylvia, I am as fond of you as ever! 
But I love my husband better than all the world, and 
it is my duty to consider his feelings before those of 
anyone else, and to be guided by his wishes.’’ 

Sylvia made an impatient movement, and rose 
to go. 

‘‘Very well!” she said, “I do not care to discuss 
the relative claims of sisterly affection and wifely 
duty. I shall not troubleyou again, Margaret.” 

Margaret burst into tears. 

“Oh ! my dear,” she cried, “if you would only give 
up Eva Severance, Mrs. Berrisford, and that set of 
women ! ” 

“Why?” 

“Because they are fast, and their society can do 
you no good. They are so talked about ! ” 

“What does that matter? Mrs. Berrisford is 
clever, and received everywhere, while Eva is a lovely 
woman, worthy of any position! ” 

“The world does not share that opinion, Sylvia.” 

“The world, my dear, is composed of imbeciles, 
and over-censorious people, like your husband.” 

Mrs. Chevalier bit her lips, and repressed the sharp 
rejoinder which lay behind them. The two women 
stood looking at each other for an instant, Sylvia 
indignant and defiant, Margaret regretful ; at last the 
latter spoke : 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


16 ^ 


‘‘Do not let ns part like this, Sylvia! Believe me, 
it grieves me sorely to be forced to admit that my hus- 
band objects to the circle you move in, and that he 
requests me not to frequent the houses you most 
afl'ect. He has not asked me to shun you; he would 
not wound me by doing that; it is your friends he 
disapproves of.’’ 

“It amounts to the same thing!” Sylvia inter- 
rupted, “and it is useless trying to gloss over the 
situation. You strictly virtuous Christian people, 
who preach love, faith and charity, know how to 
deal the crudest blows.” 

Shecrossed the room while speaking and, pickingup 
a jeweled frame in which an ivory miniature of herself 
reposed, plucked the portrait from its case and flung 
it onto the marble hearthstone, shattering it into a 
hundred fragments. 

Margaret uttered a little cry. 

“ Oh ! Sylvia, why did you do that ? I prized it so ! ” 

“Yes ; you must have, since you prized the original 
so highly that you could cast her off like a worn 
out glove the moment a new interest came into your 
life. You may find it a pleasant thought in the 
future, that it was left for you, who have so often 
reproached me for my want of faith and confidence 
in human nature, to give the final blow to my belief 
in friendship.” 

“Sylvia don’t speak so bitterly! ” cried Margaret 
sobbing, “you don’t know how I too have suffered ! 
You cannot imagine what a struggle it has been 
between my affection for you and my love for Marc ! ” 


170 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Sylvia made no response, but moved toward the 
door. Her face was convulsed by mingled anger and 
pain ; she looked like a person who had received a 
mortal blow. 

Mrs. Chevalier ran after her and caught her arm. 
cannot let you go like this!'^ she sobbed, 
don^t blame you for being angry — I do n^t wonder 
you think me false and cruel ! But I assure you I do 
love you! I don’t believe what they say, and it is 
only to please my husband that I have held aloof I 
If ever you are ill, or in trouble and need a friend, — ” 
shall not send for you!” interrupted Sylvia 
coldly, freeing herself from Margaret’s clinginghands. 
^‘Good-bye! ” 

She also,” she thought, as the street door clanged 
behind her, ‘‘like all the rest.” 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


“The golden glory of love’s light 
May never fall on my way ; 

My path may always lead through night, 

Like some deserted by-way. 

But though life’s dearest joy I miss, 

There lies a nameless strength in this.’’ 

—Ella Wheeler, 


SyIvYIA left Mrs. Chevalier’s house in a state of hot 
indignation ; she did not believe it possible for Mar- 
garet to feel any real affection for her, and yet be 
influenced to shun her society, and tacitly condemn 
her. 

She could understand that Margaret was deeply 
in love with her husband, and anxious to please him ; 
but she could not comprehend her turning aside from 
the friend of her childhood, and giving bitter pain to 
one whom she knew to be truly devoted to her, 
simply because of Mr. Chevalier’s disapproval. 

To this girl, who had had her own way in every- 
thing, who had always done what she thought fit- 
ting, and acted according to her personal convictions 
without regard to the approval or disapproval of 
those nearest to her, and had always found some 


172 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


means of bringing them to her way of thinking, 
Margaret’s ready compliance with her husband’s 
views seemed weak and contemptible. She felt that, 
in Margaret’s place, she would have found effective 
arguments in her friend’s favor; that she could have 
depicted her character, her undoubted affection, and 
their long standing friendship in such a light as to 
prove to him that she owed a duty to her friend as well 
as to himself; and Margaret’s whole course of action 
appeared spiritless and mean. 

Absorbed in her bitter, angry reflections she uncon- 
sciously quickened her pace, and hurried along 
unaware of the attention her rapid course attracted, 
and she almost screamed with nervous surprise when 
a voice at her side said : 

“ Where are you going at such a rate ? I have been 
chasing you for over a block! ” 

“I am going home,” answered Sylvia curtly. 

‘‘Well! ” returned Mr. Britton gaily, “there must 
be something very pleasant awaiting you there, you 
seem in such mad haste to arrive.” 

“Nothing pleasant awaits me anywhere; and I am 
not in the least haste ! ” 

Louis looked at her in amazement : 

“You are not in a hurry?” he repeated. “Then 
what makes you go at such a pace? ” 

“I did not know that I was walking particularly 
fast ; but I suppose my feet were unconsciously keep- 
ing time with my thoughts.” 

“You must have been thinking at the rate of about 
five miles an hour, then. Were your meditations 
pleasant? ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


173 


“No ; distinctly the reverse.’’ 

Sylvia spoke so emphatically that Mr. Britton 
looked at her inquiringly. 

“What is the trouble? ” he asked kindly. “Unbur- 
den your mind to me; you have listened to my tales 
of woe many a time and oft, and sympathized, 
advised and counseled; now give me a chance to be 
guide, philosopher, and friend.” 

Sjdvia shook her head. 

“You cannot help me, Louis,” she answered, “any 
more than I could help you.” 

“But you did help me! ’’said he, looking at her 
affectionately. “Far more than you dreamed of. 
Have faith in friendship and confide in me.” 

“Faith in friendship is just what I have not.” 

They walked on for a few moments in silence, then 
Mr. Britton asked : 

“If I guess the cause of your trouble aright, will 
you admit it ? ” 

Sylvia hesitated. She wanted to talk to some one, 
for herheartwas very full; but she hated to reveal the 
cause of her annoyance, and dreaded to bestow on 
her companion the office of consoler. She had 
known for some time that the feeling which animated 
him was not friendship ; and she shrank from giving 
him any opportunity to put his passion into words. 
The day had long since passed when she could have 
loved him. His devotion to Mrs. Berrisford, and the 
disappointment he had met with at her hands, while 
it had excited Sylvia’s pity and increased her friend- 
ship, had extinguished every spark of love. She was 
not a woman to see a man suffering in the agony of 


174 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


disappointment and misplaced affection, be a wit- 
ness of his weakness and credulity, and retain any 
romantic illusions. She appreciated all his good 
qualities, and prized his confidence and affection, but 
in her eyes he was always a person who had been 
duped; and, mingled with her esteem, was a slight 
tinge of contempt. Her experience had taught her to 
value any affection, and her liking for Louis was 
sufficiently genuine to make her desire to retain his 
friendship, and, coquette as she was, to wish to 
spare him the humiliation and pain of a refusal. 

Want of persistency was not one of Mr. Britton \s 
failings; and his affection for Sylvia, which had 
developed as much from the germ of gratitude as 
from any other cause, made him desirous to help and 
comfort her, even as she had once comforted him. 

‘‘You turned out of Fifty-fifth street,’^ he said, “so 
I imagine you have been to see Mrs. Chevalier. Has 
she any share in your annoyance? 

“What makes you suppose it? You know that 
Margaret and I are dear friends.'' 

“1 know that you were." 

Sylvia looked up in surprise. 

“Why do you speak in the past tense? " she asked. 
“What reason have you to suppose that we are not 
as fond of each other as of old ? " 

“ Because I have observed that matrimony some- 
times breaks up even long standing friendships," he 
answered, in a manner which Sylvia thought eva- 
sive. 

By this time they had reached Miss Gilchrist's 
door. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


175 


‘‘May I come in?’’ Mr. Britton asked. 

Sylvia hesitated, but her curiosity was now 
aroused; she felt that Louis had some knowledge 
bearing on the scene which had just passed between 
Margaret and herself, and determined to learn what 
it was, so nodding her head in token of assent, she 
led the way into the house and directly up to her own 
private den. 

“Now,” she said, throwing off her wraps and 
installing herself in her favorite chair ; “light a cigar, 
make yourself comfortable, and tell me all you 
know.” 

“It would n’t take long to do that,” responded Mr. 
Britton merrily, “but on what particular topic do 
you wish for information ? ” 

“I wish to know what grounds you have for sup- 
posing tl at Alargaret Chevalier and I have quar- 
reled ? ” 

“ Ah ! So \"ou have had a tiff! ” 

“It is more than that,” said Sylvia with forced 
calmness, “we are irrevocably parted.” 

Mr. Britton gave vent to a low whistle. 

“So bad as that?” he said. 

“Yes. It appears that her lord and master does not 
approve of Miss Gilchrist; and obedient to his bid- 
dinghis wife cast me off. Our old friendship, the love 
and affection of years, the proofs I have given of my 
loyalty and devotion, are as nothing weighed against 
that man’s whim! You do not^ seem surprised, 
Louis; what do you know of Mr. Chevalier’s 
grounds for disliking me? Does he speak his disap- 
proval openly?” 


176 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Mr. Britton grew crimson, and looked both angry 
and embarrassed. He seemed seeking for an answer 
which would not wound Sylvia’s pride. 

“You know,” he said at length, “that no woman 
favored by fortune as you are can pass through life 
unscathed. Y^our name is in all the society papers, it 
appears in the lists of guests at every festivity, your 
position and your wealth make you a target for 
criticism; all your doings are reported and com- 
mented upon, and Chevalier, with his French notions, 
puts the worst construction on your manner of life, 
and the attention you receive.” 

“Tell me exactly what he says! ” she interrupted. 

“What does it matter to you, Sylvia? It is enough 
to know that he does criticise, and that he has the 
audacity to prohibit his wi.e’s frequenting your 
society.” 

“ Tell me what he says I ” repeated Sylvia imperi- 
ously. “One cannot combat a charge unless one 
knows what it is.” 

“ It is useless to attempt to combat idle gossip,” 
answered Mr. Britton, vainly seeking for a way out 
of his dilemma. “It is wiser to ignore it, and treat 
it with the contempt it deserves.” 

“Such subterfuges are useless, Louis I I wish to 
know exactly what he says of me. Come,” she 
added coaxingly, “it is far better for you to tell me 
than for me to hear it from the lips of an enemy, 
and you know scandal is bound some day to reach 
the ear of its victim.” 

She looked at Britton so beseechingly, and her 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


177 


voice in entreaty had such a touching ring, that the 
young man allowed himself to be pursuaded. 

“You know what brutes foreigners are, he said, 
“ what their general opinion of women is, and how 
they regard the liberty accorded to American girls. 
Chevalier is like the rest of his set, and cannot com- 
prehend a young woman’s receiving marked atten- 
tion, and meeting men on terms of good fellowship. 
He will not allow that an unmarried woman can 
receive a man alone, or accept his escort, with pro- 
priety.^’ 

He paused awkwardly. 

S^dvia clasped her hands so tightly that the 
knuckles stood out white, and distinct. 

“He claims, then, that I am fast ?” she asked in a 
hard voice. 

Mr. Britton made no answer, and appeared deeply 
interested in the fit of his shoes, which he surveyed 
critically, bending his head so as to avoid meeting 
Sylvia’s eyes. 

“Does he say these things openly — at the club? 
Answer, Louis ! You shall tell me ! ” 

“Well, then he does,” admitted Mr. Britton in a 
husky voice. 

For an instant a deep silence reigned. Then Sylvia 
broke out sobbingly : 

“And I have no one to defend me ! ” she cried. 
“No one to take my part ! I am misjudged and for- 
saken by all the world ! I have not a friend left ! ” 
Mr. Britton sprang to his feet. 

“I do not misjudge you, Sylvia!” he exclaimed 
impetuously. “ I know that the stories which are 


178 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


going the round of the clubs are base slanders; that 
you are as pure and sweet as any woman who 
breathes.” 

Yet you are silent when others traduce me ! ” she 
interrupted bitterly. 

‘'You are unjust! Your distress blinds you, or 
you would not make such an accusation ! ” he 
retorted warmly. 

“Forgive me, I did not mean to be unkind!” 
Sylvia answered humbly. “But I am so unhappy; 
I seem to have nothing left ! What do you say in my 
defense?” she asked abruptly. 

The room was full of shadows, for the day was fast 
dying; Sylvia could not see Louis’ face distinctly b}^ 
the waning light, but she felt his embarrassment, and 
divined the perplexity into which her question threw 
him. 

“Oh !” she said reproachfully, “it is evident that 
you have not defended me frequently; the justifica- 
tory arguments are not at your tongue’s end.” 

At this unmerited reproach, Mr. Britton threw 
aside every consideration of caution or reticence, and, 
stationing himself directly in front of the distrustful 
and agitated woman, he exclaimed impulsively: 

“Can you not understand that my very position 
renders it impossible for me to defend you? I am 
numbered among those the disinterestedness of whose 
friendship such men as Chevalier question. People 
do not malign you before me, they give me no oppor- 
tunity to defend you ; and I have no right to call 
them to account for disparaging comments which 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


179 


were neither addressed to me, nor expressed in my 
presence. I might only make matters worse if I 
attempted such a thing.” 

‘‘It is as I said,” returned Sylvia mournfully, “I 
have no one to take my part ! Oh ! If my father 
were living! They would not dare talk of me so if he 
were here! ” 

“Sylvia give me the right to protect you; promise 
to be my wife; and the man who dares to breathe a 
suspicion on your fair fame shall answer to me! 
I know that you do not love me now; but I will be 
so true, so tender and devoted, that you will learn to 
do so. I will fill your life with affection, and sur- 
round you with such an atmosphere of love, that you 
will never feel lonely or sorrowful again. I am sure 
that I can make you happy, and in time win your 
heart. No; do not shake your head! Give yourself 
to me!” 

He paused, and looked at Sylvia, striving to dis- 
cern what impression his pleading had produced; but 
her head was bent, and in the dusk he could not dis- 
tinguish the expression of her face, so after a 
moment he continued: 

“We have known each other from childhood; we 
played as boy and girl together. You were my little 
sweetheart then ; be my wife now. I know howyou 
have felt regarding many suitors, but you cannot 
doubt my honesty, or purity of purpose. I do not 
need your money. Thank God, I have enough for us 
both! I only want you; but I want you very much, 
denr!” 

Sylvia rose. 


180 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘I appreciate, and prize your affection, Louis, I do 
not doubt your disinterestedness, and yet— 

'‘Are you thinking of Mrs. Berrisford?” 

“Yes.^’ 

She paused an instant as if uncertain how to con- 
tinue. 

“ I cannot forget that you have said as much to 
her.’’ 

“Dismiss such ideas from your mind, even as I have 
driven her out of my life. My passion for her sprang 
up and flourished rankly in my heart like a noxious 
weed and like a poisonous plant it has been torn up, 
root and branch, and trampled under foot. It is 
withered and dead ! ” 

“And this love for me — what guarantee have I, 
that it also is not a sudden, superficial growth? ” 

“My love for you has its roots deep in my heart; 
the seeds were planted in my boyhood, and have 
grown and developed slowly but surely. It has 
attained its full growth, and there is a life-time of 
strong tenderness in its protecting shade. Sylvia, 
why will you not accept the devotion I offer? I do 
not ask you to say that you love me, I know that 
you could not truthfully do so; but I know that you 
are fond of me, and have confidence in the sineerity of 
my affection.” 

“All that is true,” Sylvia admitted. “I do not 
love you, Louis, at least, not as I think a woman 
should love the man she marries; but I know 3^ou to 
be honorable and true, and the associations of a life- 
time draw me to you.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


181 


‘‘I am content for the present with that; for I 
belie re, if \"ou will let me teach yon, I can develop 
out of your fondness for me, and the old memories 
which are mutually dear, a warmer and a deeper 
feeling.’’ 

Louis’ deep voice trembled; he was profoundly 
moved and deeply in earnest. He understood Sylvia’s 
character thoroughly, was aware of all her failings, 
but knew what a warm, generous, loyal heart she 
had; and was confident that when she loved she 
would be easily influenced by her lover’s wishes, and 
guided by his desires. He argued that the many 
deceptions and disappointments she had met with, 
the lack of affectionate, sympathetic companionship 
which she so hungered for, were all in his favor; and 
that, by proving himself at once her passionate lover 
and devoted friend, he would end by winning her 
heart. Alas! how many men have deceived them- 
selves in the same way ; arguing that, because their 
'affection is infinite, it must inspire love in return , 
and that woman, being the weaker vessel, will surely 
yield obedience to her husband. 

Sylvia’s mind was a battlefield of conflicting emo- 
tions. She did not love Louis ; she doubted if she 
ever would; but she had reached a point where she 
believed herself incapable of giving such an affection 
as novelists and poets write about and women 
dream of. 

She was lonely, and had not one soul to whom she 
could speak unreservedly, feeling that their affection 
was such that they would not misunderstand her. 
Here was a man whom she had known all her life, a 


182 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


man well born, handsome, honorable, and intelligent, 
occupying a fine social position, and with wealth equal 
to her own. There could be no ulterior motive in his 
affection; she had no ground for questioning it; their 
tastes were similar, they had many ideas in common, 
and were thoroughly companionable. This man 
loved her; he offered her socially all that was desir- 
able, and a heart whose tenderness and sincerity was 
undoubted. Why, then, should she not accept 
him ? 

Judging from what Louis had told her, her inter- 
view with Margaret, and what she had gleaned 
elsewhere, she was a target forthe shafts of jealously 
and malicious slander, and accredited with receiving 
undue attention from many men. If it were known 
that she was the betrothed wife of a man of Louis 
Britton^s position and calibre would it not be a pro- 
tection, a refutal of all these idle tales, and set her 
straight in the world^s eyes? She began to waver. 
Perhaps after all, passionate love was not essential 
to a happy marriage. Possibly affection, trust and 
esteem, made as solid a foundation. She knew many 
women who had married for other considerations 
than those of the heart, and who seemed perfectly 
happy and contented. She would not deceive Louis 
by accepting him, for he knew that she did not love 
him ; she would tell him once more frankly how she 
felt, then be guided by his decision. And already she 
felt a delightful sense of comfort, and lifted responsi- 
bility-long sought for, unexperienced, almost sen- 
suous pleasure, in the certainty that this strong, 
ioyal,handsome man, loved her and would protect her. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


183 


Britton, sitting near and watching her narrowly, 
his perceptions quickened by love, divined all that 
was passing in her mind, and experienced no surprise 
when, turning to him, she held out her hand and 
said : 

wish to be absolutely frank, perfectly honest, 
Louis. I am not one bit in love with you; but I 
esteem and like you thoroughly, and your affection 
is precious to me. I am lonely, and the position in 
which I have unwittingly placed myself wounds my 
pride, and makes me miserable. I should like to be 
married, to have some one always near me upon 
whose affection I could depend. If you choose to 
take me knowing all this, I am willing to be your 
wife; and I will be true and faithful.^’ 

“May I ask you one question,’’ Louis said 
gravely. 

“A thousand if you like.” 

“Do you care more for any other man than for 
me? ” 

“I have never loved anyone in my life. No one is 
dearer than you.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Britton, such a ring of happiness 
in his voice as made Sylvia quiver responsively, “all 
my doubts are at rest. I adore you, and am sure I 
can teach you to love me! When will you be my 
wife?” 

“In the autumn.” 

Mr. Britton took her hand and kissed it. 

“I swear that you shall never regret your prom- 
ise! ” 

Sylvia rose. 


184 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


'‘You must go now/' she said gently, "for I am 
tired. I have an engagement to dine at the Craw- 
ford's to-night, and I want to be alone a little while 
before I am obliged to dress." 

Mr. Britton obediently rose to go. 

"I shall see you to-morrow? " 

"Yes, come in the afternoon; I shall be in after 
four." 

"I shall look up Uncle Dan to-night," he saidgayly, 
"and get his consent." 

"It will be easily obtained," answered Sylvia a 
trifle sadly. "He will be glad to be rid of his respon- 
sibility." 

"Not half as glad as I am to take it," responded 
Louis heartily. 

He kissed her hand once more, looking at her wist- 
fully the while, but not daring to venture on a ten- 
derer caress. 

"Good-by, until to-morrow!" 

"Good-by! " 

Mr. Britton had reached the door, and was 
about closing^t behind him, when Sylvia called 
him back. 

"What is it? "he asked, advancing to where she 
stood in the center of the dusky room. A ray from a 
street lamp on the corner just touched her face, and 
he could see that she was smiling. 

"What is it? " he asked again tenderly. 

Sylvia held out her hand. 

"Don't you want — to kiss me good-by? " she said, 
lifting her lovely face to his. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ Les femmes sont semblables a lavigne; elles ne satiraietit se tenir 
debout et siibsister par elles-meme; elles ont besoin d’un appui, encore 
plus pour leur esprit que pour leur corps. Mais souvent elles entrainent 
cet appui, et le font tomber.” — Nicole. 


The annoiKicement of Sylvia’s engagement created 
quite a little ripple on the surface of society’s waters, 
and her choice of a husband struck the world as being 
in every respect so desirable and suitable that carp- 
ing tongues were silenced, and it seemed as though 
in accepting Louis she had achieved the end which 
she had in view. 

People who had held somewhat aloof, now came 
forward and offered cordial congratulations. Mar- 
garet Chevalier made severalJ^unsuccessful attempts 
to see Sylvia, and finally wrote a pretty, affectionate 
note, commending her friend’s conduct, and insinuat- 
ing that her husband was so well pleased with it as to 
be willing that his wife should once more extend the 
hand of good fellowship. Sylvia read this letter to 
Mr. Britton, indulging at the same time in some 
caustic comments regarding the writer and her hus- 
band. Louis, who was thoroughly in love, resented 
Mrs. Chevalier’s conduct as much as S3dvia herself. 
They were of one mind regarding the matter, and 

185 


186 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Margaret attempts at reconciliation met with a 
cold reception. 

Uncle Dan was radiantly happy, and went about 
beaming as if he were the accepted lover, instead of 
Britton. If anyone had told the old gentleman that 
his satisfaction was not wholly disinterested, he 
would have resented the insinuation as an insult; but 
down at the bottom of his kindly old heart there lay 
a sense of calm, of a duty accomplished, and the hope 
that the rest of his days might be passed in peaceful 
tranquility. 

For the first time in years Sylvia was happy; not 
ecstatically, rapturously so, but calmly, deeply con- 
tent. She had been very lonely and distrustful ; she 
had longed for an affection which she could accept 
and enjoy, as a flower longs for sunshine; and Louis’ 
unquestioning devotion, and infinite tenderness filled 
her with unspeakable pleasure. Their acquaintance 
was of such long standing, dating as it did, back into 
the days of their childhood, that she felt no restraint 
in his presence. While his delicacy was so great, his 
perception of Sylvia’s feelings so fine, that he forced 
upon her no unwelcome caresses. She experienced a 
sense of security in her new relationship, and was not 
slow in perceiving the worldly wisdom of the step she 
had taken. If at times she questioned whether she 
had done right in thus promising to marry a man 
whom she did not love, she always quieted her con- 
science by telling herself that in time she would love 
him ; that such passion as one reads of is seldom met 
with in real life; that the transports of an unselfish 
and overwhelming affection are rarely experienced 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


187 


save by school girls; and that after a woman has 
passed her twenty-eighth year without falling des- 
perately in love, she is unlikely to care for any man 
to such an extent as w'ould lead her to believe that 
her life would be ruined without him. She tried to 
analyze her affection for Louis, comparing it with the 
sentiments she had entertained for previous adorers ; 
and Mr. Britton stood so much higher physically, 
intellectually and morally than any of the men she 
had previously known, that she became convinced 
that he was the peer of them all ; and, in the face of 
her extensive experience, it did not seem likely that 
now she would ever meet any one whom she could 
love better. 

But one cloud had ever arisen on the horizon of 
their happiness. Louis had upon one occasion 
expressed his disapproval of Mrs. Severance, and 
remarked that he wished Sylvia would not so con- 
stantly seek that lady’s society, but Sylvia had been 
so genuinely hurt and amazed at his objections, had 
defended Eva so warmly, reminding him that shehad 
been faithful, when even Margaret, her chosen friend, 
had turned against her, that her lover had been 
silenced and gave up the combat; promising himself 
that the intimacy would soon be broken off without 
necessitating any interference on his part by Mrs. 
Severance’s return to Vienna. He had rebelled, it is 
true, when Sylvia informed him that she had prom- 
ised to spend the summer months with Eva, at Mrs. 
Primrose’s country place, and he had spoken so 
warmly on the subject that Sylvia had been on the 


188 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


point of abandoning her designs, and resigning 
herself to a quiet summer at her old home on the Hud- 
son, when fate played into her hands. 

Mr. Britton came in one evening with an unusually 
sorrowful face, and to Sylvia's laughing questions 
and gay sallies regarding his woebegone expression 
gave but a half-hearted response. But when dinner 
was over, and Uncle Dan had gone off to his club and 
his nightly game of whist, Louis drew his chair close 
to Sylvia's and taking her hand said : 

‘^Darling, I have something awfully unpleasant to 
tell you." 

“Goodness! Mr. Chevalier has not been making 
any more unpleasant criticisms, has he? " exclaimed 
Sylvia, recurring at once to what was for the time 
being her greatest dread. 

“No ; and he had better not ! " responded Mr. Brit- 
ton in such a tone as to convince Sylvia that the 
Frenchman's life would not be safe if her lover caught 
him in any delinquency of that kind. 

“Well, what is it, then? It must be something 
very dreadful, for you look frightfully woebegone 
and disquieted. Have you lost all your money ? " 

“You are getting warm, as the children say," 
answered Louis, smiling in spite of himself at Sylvia's 
alarmed expression. 

“I have feared for some time that my sister's 
investments in Tacoma were not very safe, for from 
all I have heard that town is not in the flourishing 
condition which it is represented to be, and this 
morning I received letters saying that it was 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


189 


absolutely necessary for me to go West and look 
after matters personally.’’ 

“Oh, must you go? ” cried Sylvia. 

“I am afraidxl must. If it were my money I would 
lose it all rather than be separated from you for so 
long a time, but it is not mine, but Laura’s, and, as 
she has placed her interests in my hands, it is my 
duty to look after them to the best of my ability.” 

“Could you not write to someone? Cannot the 
business be transacted by correspondence? ” 

“No, I must look into the matter myself. I suspect 
there has been some trickery, and I mean to investi- 
gate the thing thoroughly; no consideration of my 
own happiness mustinterfere with my duty to Laura, 
but I do hate to leave you ! ” 

“Will you be gone long? ” 

“I can’t tell, but I fear it will be close onto six 
weeks before I return, for while I am in that part of 
the country there is another bit of business I want 
to look into.” 

“Oh, dear, what shall I do without you? I shall 
be frightfully lonely! ” 

Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Do you really care so much, darling!” cried Mr. 
Britton delighted to have his usually serene, insou- 
ciante sweetheart show so much feeling. “Shall you 
miss me very much? ” 

“Indeed, I shall! I shall miss you terribly. How 
could I help doing so, when you are always with me, 
and always so good and kind ? ” 

Mr. Britton was charmed. Sylvia’s evident sorrow 
at the idea of being parted from him, the thought 


c 


190 


A COMMON MISTAKE^ 


that he would be so much missed almost reconciled 
him to the journey. He argued that absence makes 
the heart grow fonder/' and that through missing 
his companionship and devotion Sylvia would learn 
what place in her life he filled. 

Louis," said Sylvia breaking in upon his medita- 
tion, would you mind very much if I spent the weeks 
that you are away with Eva? It would be so dread- 
fully lonely at Irvington." 

Louis frowned. 

‘‘You know I am not fond of Mrs. Severance," he 
said slowly. 

“Yes, I know," said Sylvia, “but I like her very 
much, and find her more congenial than any other 
woman of my acquaintance, and we shall so soon be 
parted that you need not begrudge my spending a 
little time with her; besides I shall not be robbing 
you since you will be so far away." 

“I hate to appear disagreeable and unreasonable," 
said Mr. Britton, “but I cannot bear to have yon 
with that woman. Some instinct warns me that she 
will make trouble between us." 

Sylvia laughed merrily. 

“You ridiculous boy! " she said; “the idea of your 
having presentiments! and this is such an absurd 
one ; how could Eva make trouble between you and 
me?" 

“I am sure I don't know," returned Louis, gloom- 
ily, “but that fancy has haunted me for a long time; 
I can't shake it off, and I never see you together with- 
out the idea recurring to me," 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


191 


‘‘Irvington is not a cheerful place for me at any 
time/’ said Sylvia, returning to the charge. “The 
greatest sorrow of my life befell me there, and the 
place is haunted with sad, but precious memories. I 
should not mind being there so much if you were to 
be with me, but alone — Oh, Louis, I could not 
stand it ! I have never been back there since that 
dreadful winter following my mother’s death.” 

Mr. Britton weakened ; he could not bear to see 
Sylvia unhappy or to deny her any pleasure which it 
was in his power to bestow. Moreover, in intimat- 
ing that with him at her side she could be happy even 
in the sorrowful atmosphere of Irvington, she touched 
the right chord. He was pleased to believe himself 
so dear, and felt he could afford to be generous. 

“You know I would do anything to insure your 
contentment,” he answered, “so if you will be hap- 
pier with Mrs. Severance, I will not oppose your 
going with her; only promise me, that as soon as I 
return you will go to Irvington, or to any other 
placeyou prefer; as long as we are together I do not 
care where it is ! ” 

A feeling of self-reproach swept over Sylvia. She 
knew that in going with Eva she was simply doing 
what would amuse her the most, and she felt herself 
unworthy of such unquestioning love as Louis lav- 
ished upon her. 

“Well, then it is settled,” she said; “while you are 
in the West I will be in Burlington. You will let 
me^ know the day of your return, and when you 
arrive you will find me installed at Irvington. When 
shall you be obliged to leave? ” 


192 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Mr. Britton sighed deeply. 

‘‘I must go at once/^ he said, ‘‘and I think I had 
better start Sunday night. Some fellows I know arc 
going as far as Chicago then. They are a good 
enough sort, and their company will help me to bear 
the first wrench. God ! I hate to leave you ! 

“You do not dread it anymore than I do, she 
responded mournfully. “Do you know,” she added 
coquettishly, leaning forward and smiling into Mr. 
Britton’s face, “that I believe^I am really falling in 
love with you. I feel so badly at your leaving me. 
And yet six weeks is only a short time, it will soon 
be gone. This is the middle of May; by the first of 
July we shall be together again.” 

Mr. Britton groaned. 

“It is an eternity! ” he said. “Oh, no Sylvia you 
are fond of me, but you do not love me; if you did 
you would not call six weeks a short time.” 

Sylvia laughed and set herself determinedly to the 
task of proving to Mr. Britton that she was really 
tenderly attached to him, and of dissipating his 
gloomy forebodings. She succeeded so well that, 
when he bade her good-night, he had regained his 
usual cheerfulness and serenity. 


CHAPTER XX. 


“La plupart des femmes jugent du merite et de la bonne mine d’tin 
homme par i'impression qn’il fait sur elles, et n’accordent presque ni Tun 
ni I’autre a celui pour qui elles ne sen tent rien .” — La Bruyere. 


Louis had departed, and Sylvia, to fill the void 
which his absence made in her life, passed her time 
almost entirely with Mrs. Severance. In the close 
intimacy which had sprung up between them the 
question of love could not be neglected, and it was 
not; but on this point also their views accorded, 
both believing that no man in the world was worth 
breaking one's, heart for. 

“With the exception of your husband, and my 
Louis," Sylvia had added one afternoon at the close 
of a discussion on this topic. 

Mrs. Severance dropped her eyes, and looked at 
Sjdvia under her half closed lids. 

“ Certainly," she said in a dry tone, “but conju- 
gal love is not exactly what you young girls 
imagine." 

“I kgow it," responded Sylvia. “You do not take 
me for an ingenuey I hope ! " 

“Nor the other love either," continued Eva. 

She stopped hesitatingly, still gazing at Sylvia 
through her half shut eyes. 

13 193 


194 


A COMMON MISTAKE. ^ 


“Nevertheless, do you not advise me to marry 
demanded Sylvia. 

“lam only surprised that you have not done it 
before this.” 

“Louis had not asked me,” said Sylvia laugh- 
ing. 

“Bah! You need not try and make me think that 
you have been simply waiting for the all-conquering 
Louis. You are not in love with him, you simply like 
no one better, and — it is a question of expediency. 
Why did you choose him? You had plenty of other 
eligible offers. Ballantine, forexample. He is agood 
family, considered unusually clever in his profession, 
rich, and a thorough man of the world.” 

Sylvia laughed heartily. 

“Ah! ” she exclaimed, as soon as she had recovered 
her breath, “Ballantine is the only man who never 
wanted to marry me. Would you believe it ! He has 
never uttered one word to me which even savored of 
love-making ! ” 

“What is he, then? ” 

“A friend.” 

“Platonic?” asked Eva sneeringly. “And the 
others?” 

“Oh, I imagine the others would have taken me; 
some for my eyes and some for my dot; but none of 
them suited me ! ” 

“I am afraid you were hard to please. It does not 
do to have too high an ideal.” 

“I never had an ideal, my dear,” answered Sylvia 
coolly. “I merely looked for a man who was to my 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


195 


taste, and one whom I could be reasonably sure did 
not love me wholly lor my money.’’ 

“It appears to me,” said Eva with a slight tone of 
sarcasm in her voice, “that you ask for a great 
deal.” 

Sylvia threw up her head defiantly. 

“You ought to understand, my dear Eva,” she 
answered haughtily, “that my case is not precisely 
that of a poor girl, who feels obliged to marry in 
order to lessen the family expenses, or to improve her 
social position. Miss Gilchrist has no need of a hus- 
band.” 

' “Every woman needs a husband,” responded Mrs. 
Severance tranquilly; “they are a social necessity 
now-a-days.” 

She paused for a moment and then continued : 

“To speak openly, and as your friend, I am a wee 
bit disappointed in the choice you made. I like Mr. 
Britton; he is a charming fellow, and would be a 
most desirable husband for any other woman; but 
for you — well, I think you might have done better.” 

“I really do not see how,” said Sylvia freezingly. 

“Now, don’t be angry, dear; I am not disparag- 
ing your beloved, only I think, with your beauty 
and wealth, you might have made a more ambitious 
marriage. I should have liked to have found a hus- 
band for you in Europe. My husband has friends 
everywhere, and I have relatives on my mother’s 
side, who as you know, is a French woman of dis- 
tinguished family, which gives us an entree into the 
best society everywhere, and we know the eligible 
bachelors in every capital of Europe.”’ 


196 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘'You spoke to me once,” exclaimed Sylvia, remem- 
bering the conversation of a few days previous, “of a 
friend of your husband's whom you saw a great deal 
of in Vienna.” 

“Inorinski? ” 

“Yes; that was the name — Inorinski. Was it he 
whom you destined to make me happy for life? ” 

“No,” responded Mrs. Severance promptly, cast- 
ing a sharp and penetrating glance at S^dvia. 

“ Is he an Austrian ? ” Sylvia asked, feeling so curious 
about this stranger, so strangely interested in him, 
that she did not perceive how oddly her friend looked 
at her, or notice how constrained and hard her voice 
was. 

“His mother was an Austrian, his father a Rus- 
sian, as his name might tell you.” 

Several evenings after the above conversation, 
Sylvia and Eva were seated in Mrs. Primrose's 
drawing room, looking over an album containing 
the photographs of celebrated people. Mrs. Prim- 
rose, still greedy of admiration, was playing cribbage 
with an ancient admirer; the two j^ounger women 
were seated together on a small sofa in a distant 
corner. Mrs. Severance amused her friend as they 
turned over the leaves of the album by relating bits 
of gossip and anecdotes regarding the different per- 
sonages. 

“The women please me the most,” observed Sylvia, 
tossing aside the portraits of a couple of princes, a 
well known diplomat, a distinguished author and a 
celebrated actor, “Ah, her'e is the empress. What a^ 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


197 


beautiful creature she is! They say she looks mag- 
uificent on horseback.’’ 

‘‘I suppose she did once,” said Mrs. Severance 
indifferently, ‘‘but she is too old now to appear 
magnificent anywhere. Here is the Baroness Marie 
Vesera, who committed suicide, or was shot by 
Prince Rudolph, nobody knows exactly which.” 

‘‘And who is this?” Sylvia asked, holding up a 
photograph to the light of a lamp in order to get a 
better view of it. 

“I beg to observe that the object of your interest 
is not a woman,” remarked Mrs. Severance mock- 
ingly, throwing herself back among the cushions on 
the sofa in such wise as to keep her face in the 
shadow. 

“It is the most marvelously beautiful man’s face 
that I have ever seen.” 

“Really?” 

“Who is he?” 

“Guess.” 

“An archangel, or a prince of the blood.” 

Eva laughed softly, screening her face with her 
fan. 

“A little lower, if you please.” 

“A duke, then ? ” 

“No.” 

“A marquis, at least. Now, don’t deny it, for it 
would be a real grief to me to learn that this godlike 
face belonged to a pianist or an actor.” 

“He is only an humble lieutenant. It is Alexis 
Inorinski.” 


198 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


The name dropped slowly, almost tenderly, from 
Mrs. Severance’s lips. A flush rose to her cheeks, but 
Sylvia absorbed in contemplation of the photograph 
noticed nothing singular in her friend^s manner. 

Eva leaned forward and looked over Sylvia’s 
shoulder at the photograph. 

‘‘Is it not a beautiful type? ” she said. “Oh, these 
Slavs ! Do you know them at all, Sylvia? ” 

Miss Gilchrist shook her head. 

“Is he really so handsome?” she asked distrust- 
fully. “Photographs are so deceptive.” 

“This does not flatter him; he is far handsomer/' 
replied Eva, lifting her hand suddenly to her throat 
as if her collar choked her and she must loosen it, 
then conquering the desire. “Far handsomer,” she 
repeated, as if forcing herself to speak the words. 

Sylvia turned over the page regretfully, and paid 
but scant attention to the remaining portraits in the 
album. Before leaving it, she turned back the leaves 
and gave a last lingering glance at the face which 
had so fascinated her. 

Mrs. Severance, her attention fixed on Sylvia, 
murmured in a languishing tone, which reminded one 
of an extinguisher being slowly dropped on a flame. 

“He isonly apoor lieutenant in a hussar regiment.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


“Ir'amour est tin oiseau rebelle, 

Que nul ne pent apprivoiser, 

Et c’est bien cn vain qu’on I’appele, 

S’il lui convient de refuser. 

Ricn n’y fait menace on priere, 

L’un parle bien, 1’ autre se tait; 

Ete’est I’atitrc que je prefere, 

II n'a rien dit, mais il me plait. 

— Carmen. 


It was midsummer, and still Mr. Britton had not 
returned. The business in the West had proved far 
more complicated and his widowed sister’s interests 
much more involved than he had at first supposed. 
He wrote daily to Sylvia, lamenting their separation 
and inveighing against the cruel fate which kept 
them apart. At first Sylvia had missed him terribly, 
but gradually she had become accustomed to his 
absence. Her love was not profound enough to 
make it a lasting, ever-present pain. 

Mrs. Primrose owned a house which stood quite 
in the country, between Burlington and the village 
of Vinoski. She had been most pressing in her invi- 
tations to Sylvia, and cordially urged her to spend 
the summer with them, and the latter had accepted 
all the more willingly as Eva was to return to Vienna 
in September, and as she further realized that after 

199 


200 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


her marriage Louis’ dislike to her friend would place 
a barrier between them. 

When the}^ settled themselves in their rustic home 
the two friends chose adjoining apartments, and 
from morning till night they were constantly 
together, running backward and forward between 
each other’s rooms, laughing, singing, and chaffing 
like two school girls. 

In spite of her thirty-six years Eva was full of life 
and vivacity. She might have passed for a young 
girl had it not been for a certain depth of expression 
in her eyes and a peculiar smile,^vffiich indicated an 
undercurrent of thought and suggested experience 
hardly in keeping with girlish innocence. There was 
a singular veiled tone in her voice, above all when 
she conversed with men, which gave it an inflection 
of abandon, a suggestion of voluptuousness. 

imagine,” remarked Sylvia, on one occasion, 
^Hhat men find you fascinating.” 

^‘You are right,” replied Eva, the corners of her 
mouth twitching with suppressed merriment, ‘'but 
the women cannot endure me ! ” 

“And what about me?” 

“Oh, you are the exception ; you are so sure ofyour 
own powers of fascination that it has never occurred 
to you to be jealous.” 

One evening when Mrs. Severance was lounging 
in Sylvia’s room in negligee attire, the latter noticed 
a small locket attached to an almost invisible chain 
hanging on Eva’s neck. 

“Is that 3^our son’s portrait? ” she asked, instinct- 
ively holding out her hand, “let me see it.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


201 


“Yes, yes, it is Harry^s picture, but it is a poor 
likeness,’’ replied Eva, drawing back hastily and 
thrusting the locket out of sight. 

The first few days of her visit passed uneventfully, 
but on the morning of the fifth, while they were still at 
breakfast, Mrs. Severance received a letter the perusal 
of which left her nervous and preoccupied for the 
remainder of the day. Sylvia imagined that her hus- 
band had announced some disagreeable news, but as 
Eva did not proffer her confidence she asked no ques- 
tions; toward night, however, Mrs. Severance’s agi- 
tation became so marked that she could not refrain 
from asking if she were ill; and before retiring for the 
night she said to Eva : 

“Is there nothing I can do for you? You look 
wretchedly nervous, and I am afraid you will not 
sleep. Don’t you want a dose of my chloral ? ’’’ 
“"Your chloral? Do you mean to say you carry 
that stuff about with you ? ” 

“Yes, I have not been without a bottle of it by me 
for years. I got into a frightfully nervous condition 
after mamma died, and began taking it then.” 

“You don’t use it habitually, do you? ” 

“Oh, no; as a rule I sleep very well, but there is 
nothing that I abominate and dread as I do a sleep- 
less night, and when my nerves give me reason to 
think that there is one in store for me I take a dose 
and fool Dame Nature.” 

“I am very much obliged for your offer,” said Eva, 
“but I don’t require a sedative; I shall be all right 
in the morning.” 


2o2 


A COMMON MISTAiC:^ 


They kissed each other good-night, and as tlu 
door closed between them, Sylvia was amazed to hear 
the bolt drawn on Eva’s side. 

In the grey dawn Sylvia was awakened by an 
unusual stir in the house. She tried ineffectually to 
go to sleep again, but at last, becoming nervous, she 
dressed and went down to the sitting room just as 
the six o’clock bell was ringing. She found no one in 
the apartment, so went out onto the piazza. 

Perfect tranquility reigned. The outlines of the 
distant mountains were plainly visible in the clear 
morning light, and the sun shone brightly after his 
night’s repose. Mansfield Height reared its summit 
proudly in the pure air, as if throwing defiance to 
the verdant, undulating fields, rich in their robes of 
golden grain, which lay slumbering at its base. 

The morning was tempting, and without any 
particular aim in view Sylvia wandered out of the 
garden and followed a path leading to the fields, 
delighting in the sense of unrestrained liberty. The 
dewy calm of the morning filled her with pleasure, 
and gave her a feeling of peace and contentment to 
which she had long been a stranger. She strolled 
slowly along, her thoughts as aimless as her feet. 
She made no attempt at concentrated thought, but 
contented herself with breathing the fresh air, realiz- 
ing that the quiet was delightful, that a gentle 
breeze just lifted the soft curls on her forehead and 
cooled her cheeks, at the same time thinking of the 
new shade imposed by fashion, and which could not 
by any possible means be made to harmonize with 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


203 


her complexion and coloring. While her gaze wan- 
dered over the field-flowers at her feet in admiration 
of their frail beauty she recalled to mind the pictures 
in La vie Parisienney the leaves of which she had 
turned over the previous evening, but this odd 
dualism of Nature's charms and worldly creations 
enhanced rather than detracted from her pleasure in 
the mere consciousness of life. 

The pathway was not entirely deserted, for 
country people, farmers' wives and daughters, 
arrayed in their best clothes, were continually pass- 
ing ; where could they be going ? She asked herself 
the question, but could not summon up sufficient 
energy to make the inquiry. Then she suddenly 
recollected that it was Sunday, and that the end of 
their pilgrimage was a little chapel not far distant. 

Why should she not go to church? It would be a 
novelty to her. Religion held no place in her life, 
either as a conviction or as a protestation of faith. 
She was neither a believer or an atheist, because she 
had never taken the trouble to think about religion 
at all. She had been accustomed from infancy to 
consider the Dominical service as a social custom to 
be observed, like bowing to one's friends, or the 
receiving and returning of visits, or the fashionable 
lecture which one must attend, cost what it might. 

Her nature, altogether devoid of ideality, had 
never felt the need of being elevated and attuned to 
transcendental thought. Her heart had never expe- 
rienced the consoling influence of prayer; religious 
sentiment was altogether wanting in her, and it had 
never been cultivated, either at home or in school. 


204 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


The Httie Catholic church at Burlington was 
devoid of painting or statues; all the ornaments it 
possessed were gathered together on the altar — 
some gilded candlesticks whose waxen tapers shore 
feebly in the bright sunlight, a few wild flowers in 
cheap and gaudy vases, a bunch of roses laid before 
a clumsy wooden figure of the Virgin, tribute from 
some faithful soul, was all the adornment the 
humble chapel possessed. 

The priest, an elderly Canadian Frenchman, 
mounted the steps of the altar, arrayed in a faded 
cassock and starched surplice, crossing himself 
devoutly. Everyone in the church, including Sylvia, 
followed his example. She was astonished to find 
herself in the midst of such a crowd, the greater part 
of which was composed of ugly, old women with 
coarse, wrinkled skins and hands hardened and 
discolored by labor. And what toilets! What 
combinations of crude colors! 

Sylvia looked down at herself, at her almOvSt trans- 
parently white hands with their perfectly tapering 
fingers and little rosy nails. She thought of the fine 
linen that she wore, of the care bestowed on her per- 
son, and compared herself with the women around 
her. She rejoiced in the sensation of her own well- 
being, in the satin smoothness of her perfumed skin, 
and was unconsciously thankful that she was not as 
those about her. 

Meanwhile the women had dropped devoutly on 
their knees, joining the priest in a solemn chant. The 
sound of their voices floated upward with the incense. 
The fresh voice of a young girl rose clear and high 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


205 


above the rest singing Stella Mattutinay and those 
two words which might have formed the part of an 
ordinary ballad floated upward as if borne aloft on 
the wings of a dove, returning to fall softly and 
gently like a blessing on the kneeling throng. 

The flickering light of the candles was veiled by the 
faint blue vapor rising from the censer, while through 
the open windows could be discerned avast extent of 
field and green meadow land, and, above, the cloud- 
less blue vault of the sky. 

Sylvia, seated behind a column, was the only one 
who remained mute; she did not know howto pray. 
Seated there, a quiet observer of the devotees around 
her, lulled by the breeze which floated in through the 
open windows and the monotonous sound of the 
priest’s voice, her wandering thoughts became con- 
crete, and the mysterious enigma of life presented 
itself to her mental vision — the why and wherefore of 
all this religious sentiment of tears and prayers and 
sensuous ecstacies which were all alike unknown to 
her. It must be owing to an emotion more intense 
than joy, a pleasure greater than what is ordinarily 
called pleasure, something more profound, which 
shakes to the very depths the sources of feeling and 
sentiment. But what could it be? 

Was it caused by an external influence? Or was it 
a religious enthusiasm, an inward spiritual growth, 
by which the comprehension of things divine linked 
the soul to nature instead of linking- nature to the 
soul? 

What were -the inward feelings of these poor 
peasants? Why, while listening to the words 


206 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


of the priest, did they seem to find contentment? 
What comfort did the Latin prayers, the hymns, 
or the priest^s commonplace sermon, bring to 
them? Why did a woman who sat directly in front 
of her, and at whose side a child was nestling, look 
so peaceful and contented as she caressed the little 
curly head which rested against her arm? What gave 
that expression of rapt adoration to the face of a 
young girl dressed in cheap mourning who knelt a 
few feet away? Sjdvia could see that the hands 
which held the prayer-book trembled — that there were 
tears in the girl’s eyes, yet she looked as if trans- 
ported by her thoughts into an unknown ideal world 
of which Sylvia was ignorant. 

Sylvia’s eyes, as they roved over the congregation, 
showed her that most of the faces bore an expression 
of peaceful contentment; others looked bright and 
happy. 

Happiness! That was what she had always sought 
for, but never found ; excitement, fictitious ple^isurcs, 
superficial joys, gratification of her senses — all these 
she had known; but real, deep happiness, the truest, 
best joys of life, had somehow passed her by. 

Her eyes wandered back to the mother with her 
child, and then fell on an aged couple with wrinkled, 
weather-beaten, toil-worn faces who sat hand clasped 
in hand. Louis’ face suddenly rose before her. She 
wondered if after all it was not wrong to marry him. 
She wondered whether the years they would spend 
together would draw them nearer and nearer, so that 
they, too, in their old age would walk hand in hand. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


207 


All her beliefs in esteem, congeniality, social aggran- 
dizement and kindred considerations making a solid 
foundation for marital happiness crumbled away, 
and love, which she had mocked at — which she had 
grown to believe could never come to her — became 
suddenly in her eyes the sole thing to be desired — to 
be prayed for, striven after, waited for. An inde- 
scribable sadness took possession of her, a feeling of 
terror at the recollection of the promise she had 
given, a hopeless sense of utter inability to fulfill it, 
and dismay at the pain she would inflict if she broke 
faith with Louis. 

She felt that if she remained one instant longer in 
the church she would break into hysterical weeping 
in the midst of this crowd of ignorant worshipers. 
Cut to the heart by despair in her inability to love, 
by the thought of the suffering she must inflict if she 
broke the engagement which it now seemed impos- 
sible to fulfill, crushed by the sudden knowledge that 
she must love whom she wed, that her whole course 
of action had been one terrible mistake — she hastened 
out of the church while the humble chapel was filled 
with the echo of tbe last chant: Agnus Dei j qui tollis 
peccata mundi.^^ 

Sylvia retraced her steps hurriedly to the cottage, 
fearing her long absence might alarm her friends; but 
at the cottage they were ignorant of her matinal 
excursion and supposed her still in her room. On 
entering the house she went at once to the sitting 
room just as she was, in her simple cotton dress and 
broad-brimmed hat, her eyes blazing with excitement 


208 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


caused by the conflicting emotions within her, her 
cheeks rosy from her hasty walk. 

She paused on the threshold, surprised to see Eva 
engaged in earnest conversation with a stranger; 
she wished to withdraw, but the rustle of her dress 
as she turned attracted Mrs. Severance’s attention, 
and, advancing a step, she called : 

‘‘Come! Come in, Sylvia, dear.” 

The stranger turned, and Sylvia stood thunder- 
struck, as if she had encountered an apparition. 

“Inorinski! ” she murmured under her breath. 

“Old friends already, I see,” said Mrs. Severance; 
“photographs have reached such a state of perfection 
in these days that an introduction is almost unneces- 
sary. Nevertheless, for form’s sake, my friend Count 
Inorinski; my dearest friend, Miss Sylvia Gilchrist.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“ One face shining out lil^e a star, 

One face haunting the dreams of eaclu 
One voice, sweeter than others are, 

Breaking into silvery speech.'* 

— Anon. 


‘‘ He has been in great trouble,” said Mrs. Sever ancG> 
alluding to Count Inorinski, on the evening of the 
same day. 

‘‘Trouble.'^” repeated Sylvia mechanically, gazing 
into space where she seemed still to see the brilliant 
eyes of Inorinski gazing at her with the same undis- 
guised admiration in their liquid depths as when he 
turned to greet her that morning. 

‘‘He has left his regiment,” continued Mrs. Sever- 
ance, toying with the lace trimming of her dress. 
“My husband, who is perfectly devoted to him, is 
very angry.” 

“What caused him to leave his regiment? What 
was the trouble al^out ? ” 

“ Oh, it is a complicated matter. He and his colonel 
have not been on good terms for a long while ; he 
accused Alexis of some misdemeanor of which he was 
innocent, and the count, in a rage, threw up his com- 
mission, after having told the colonel in very plain 

language what he thought of him.” 

14 20y 


210 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘ What can be done about it ? ’’ 

“I am sure I don’t know, but his friends are 
working for him. He will stay here for the present.” 

“Then you will not leave America as soon as you 
expected? ” said Sylvia. 

“No. The count came here, expecting to find 
friends in mother and me. We could not make a 
move without seeming uncivil.” 

Her words roused in Sylvia a mingled feeling of 
pleasure and annoyance. She wished to know 
something more, but Mrs. Severance remained silent, 
stretched at full length upon the sofa, where her dress 
made a white spot in the gathering gloom. 

Silence fell between the two women. The thought- 
ful, dreamy sileme, peculiar to the twilight hour, and 
in the dusk each one gave free rein to her fancies and 
indulged in the luxury of waking dreams. Eva’s 
figure, extended at full length on the couch, was 
bi ought into bold relief by her white dress, while 
Sylvia, sunk in a great armchair, her back to the 
lights was barely distinguishable. 

An odor of falling dew, delightfully refreshing 
after the heat of the day, and mingled with the per- 
fume of flowers, was wafted through the open 
windows, while the humming of myriads of insects, 
the rustle of the breeze in the trees were the only 
sounds that broke the stillness. 

Thought followed thought in quick succession ; 
visions of the past appeared like phantoms; dreams 
and desires for the future presented themselves viv- 
idly to the imagination. Fancies light as air floated 
in the shadows — meeting, parting, waving backward 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


211 


and forward, invisible yet almost felt in the deep 
stillness, and thrilling through every nerve of the 
two dreamers. 

In the midst of the grayish obscurity Inorinski 
seemed to stand out in all his beauty. They both 
saw him distinctly. His tall, soldierly figure, his 
fine forehead, the pure, classic outline of the cheek, 
noble profile, firm, exquisitely moulded chin, the 
mouth, perfect in its immobility, fascinating in its 
smile, and dark, expressive eyes. By a singular phe- 
nomenon these two women not only felt the presence 
of Inorinski, but each was conscious that the other 
felt it. 

Sunk in her chair, Sylvia kept her eyes fixed on the 
sofa, where even Eva’s white dress began to disap- 
pear little by little in the fast gathering shadows. 
She waved her fan backward and forward, slowly, 
gently, as if under the thrall of voluptuous languor, 
and, from looking steadily at its regular undulating 
motion, Sylvia’s eyelids began to droop. She yielded 
to a sensation of drowsiness, and, as she sank back 
in the depths of her chair, the material part of her 
glided into sleep, while her brain remained awake. 

Sylvia felt as if something went out from her 
producing a feeling of giddiness, and imparting the 
strange yet soothing sensation of one part of her 
being sunk into luxurious rest while the other wan- 
dered in dreamland. She seemed to be living two 
distinct lives— the material part of her abandoned 
to itself, lost in forgetfulness, sunk in happy oblivion; 
while the spiritual part of her took its aerial flight 


212 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


into the infinite; thus she was indulging in two - 
distinct vsensations, two delights. 

She felt perfectly placid and content; was it 
because of her comfortable position, and perfect 
health, or because she saw everything through rose 
colored spectacles? And what did she see? Did she 
really behold anything, or was she only sensible of 
feeling? Was vshe dreaming, or was she dead, and 
assisting in spirit at her own transformation? 

Suddenly she lost all consciousness. The last sen- 
sation she experienced was that of floating as lightly 
as a feather borne on the wings of the wind, of being 
transported far, far away and rocked in loving 
arms. All her nervous system seemed concentrated 
in the heavy throbbing of her heart; then even that 
sensation was lost. 

Was it a minute or an hour that passed? She 
never knew. 

She was awakened by the sound of music, which 
seemed like a sigh or the murmur of the breeze 
through the trees in the garden. From the land of 
dreams from which she had just returned there still 
lingered around her a confused sense of distant 
figures, fading colors and dissolving lines, but by 
degrees she regained consciousness, opened her eyes, 
looked about her and listened. The notes she heard 
were velvety in their softness, full and deep as those 
of an organ played by a master^s hand, and breath- 
ing of suppressed passion. 

Sylvia half raised herself, magnetically attracted 
by the music, her mind still affected by the recent 
phantasmagoria, and with that tendency toward 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


213 


sadness which is generally experienced after great 
dental excitement. 

“Eva! she called; “Eva! ’’ 

There was no response, so, rising, she groped her 
way to the sofa. 

It was unoccupied. 

A faint ray of light shone under the portiere 
which veiled the door leading into the music room, 
and following this light she discovered from whence 
the music came. She moved like a somnambulist, 
or like a traveler recently landed after a long sea 
voyage, who finds difficulty in walking on terra 
firma. 

The music room was faintly lighted by a solitary 
lamp. Inorinski was seated at the piano ; she had 
but an imperfect view of his face, the upper part of 
which was in the shadow, but the light plainly 
revealed the smile of tenderness playing on his hand- 
some lips, whose vivid redness conveyed an idea of 
refined sensuality. 

By his side, on that side where the shadows were 
deepest, a figure could be discerned. 

It was Eva, crouching on a low ottoman, her 
head resting against the piano in the utter abandon- 
ment of ecstatic delight. 

Sylvia stopped under the half drawn curtain, her 
heart sinking with a feeling of intense hopelessness, 
and a hitherto unknown sensation, a greedy longing, 
a bitter envy pervading her whole being and moving 
her to the very depths of her soul. She supported 
herself against the door, feeling alone, alone, alone. 


214 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Meanwhile, Eva, bending forward, laid her head 
against the keys of the piano, producing a discord 
which sounded almost like a moan as it mingled 
with the swelling music. 

Inorinski ceased playing and laid his hand lightly 
on her hair, and Eva, raising her head, gave him a 
speaking glance, irresistible in its fondness; the 
count bent toward her. 

S^dvia dropped the curtain, feeling all the blood in 
her body rushing to her heart ; a cloud passed before 
her eyes, and, without knowing wh^^ she suffered as 
with the pangs of death. She seemed to be suffo- 
cating, and she sank slowly down to the ground, 
biting her lips in the effort to restrain a bitter cry. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


I did not dare confide to mortal ear 

The new, sweet bliss that through my spirit spread, 

Nor murmur it in prayer to God above.” 

— Francis S. Salt us. 


The following morning Sylvia was walking about 
the garden waiting for the breakfast bell to sound, 
accompanied by Count Inorinski, who showed himself 
amiably attentive, and politely solicitous regarding 
her pallor and listless air. With the sun^s first rays 
Sylvia had forgotten the nightmare of the previous 
evening, but the results of her physical suffering were 
not so easily effaced. 

The count’s manner was charming; he had a 
musical voice of which he was complete master, and 
which he modulated with rare skill. He made even 
a better listener than talker, giving a most compli- 
mentary amount of attention to the person he was 
with, and he bent over Sylvia in a most devoted man- 
ner, gazing at her with an expression of almost 
caressing admiration in his dark eyes. Nature had 
lavished on him every possible charm, which a liberal 
education had enhanced; and, in addition to his 
manly, Slavic beauty, he had acquired all the polish 
and ease of an accomplished man of the world. 

215 


216 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


it true that you are going to leave us?'^ he 
asked abruptly. 

‘'Sad, but true,'^ said Sylvia glancing at him flirt- 
ingly. 

“I regret to learn it,’’ returned Inorinski with an 
answering glance. 

“I regret being obliged to go;” with a little 
sigh. 

“Then why do you do so ? ” 

“I must be careful not to abuse my friend’s hospi- 
tality.” 

The count looked at her smilingly. 

“ When it is the hand of friendship which extends 
hospitality, surely there can be no danger of abusing 
the gift. I am sure Mrs. Severance will regret your 
departure — as much as I shall.” 

Sylvia made no answer. She who was accustomed 
to sustain the most brilliant conversation could find 
absolutely nothing to reply. In another man such 
undisguised admiration and bold flirtation on so 
short an acquaintance would have annoyed and dis- 
gusted her, but Count Inorinski’s manner was so 
courteous that it robbed his words of all familiarity. 
He was one of those privileged people whose manner 
makes all they do or say seem permissible and cor- 
rect. 

Sylvia felt strangely drawn toward him. There 
was so much she wished to say that she knew not 
howto begin. She felt an intense desire to confide in 
this stranger, and it seemed to her natural, even nec- 
essary, to open her heart to him, to explain all her 
theories of life, her feelings, her sentiments, in order 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


217 


that he might the sooner understand her; and it 
was with a jealous pang that she remembered 
that he was more than a mere friend to Eva Sever- 
ance, as the tableau of the night before suddenly 
reproduced itself before her eyes. 

The count spoke of America, which he now visited 
for the first time, with enthusiasm. But though 
Sylvia heard all he said, his voice seemed to come to 
her from* a distance; the scene in the music room was 
ever before her. Suddenly she asked : 

‘‘Do you intend to remain long in America? 

“That depends.” 

Lifting her eyes Sylvia encountered his glance, 
and her heart began to beat violently. She grew 
so pale that her companion asked in alarm : 

“ Mademoiselle, are you ill?” 

Recovering herself instantly she laughed lightly. 

“Oh, no! It is the effect of the heat; the weather 
lately has been intolerable.” 

He looked at her quizzically. 

“Is the health of American ladies usually so varh 
able? ” he asked. “Yesterday you were the incarna- 
tion of radiant health; to-day you are as pale and 
white as if recovering from an illness.” 

“You make me fear that I am hideous this morn- 
ing. I am glad your first impression of me was not 
so painful.” 

“You could not be hideous under any circumstan- 
ces,” replied Inorinski daringly. 

Sylvia raised her hand in an attitude familiar to 
her, showing to advantage its transparent white- 
ness and pink tinted nails. 


218 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


A truce to compliment/’ she said. 

The count bent his head. 

‘‘I beg your pardon,” he said deprecatingly. 

They continued to walk slowly up and down 
under the trees. Neither spoke. Sylvia was think- 
ing of the infinite variety of temperaments which 
had come under her observation, and which she had 
classified under five distinct heads. The impassioned, 
the temperate, the indifferent, the cold, and the 
piquant. Qualities which got mixed up and con- 
founded with each other frequently, but never to the 
point of mvstification. 

Uncle Dan, for example, was easy and cold. Eva, 
easy and impassioned. Ballan tine, cold and piquant. 
To what category did Inorinski belong? 

The bell rang for breakfast. Sylvia turned, 
advanced a few steps toward the house, then 
stopped to gather a rose. 

Inorinski stopped also, and bending to look at the 
flower which she held in her hand remarked, 

‘‘Roses are my favorite flowers.” 

“The crimson ones?” asked Sylvia, displaying her 
little white teeth in rather a forced smile. 

“No, I prefer the blush roses; they remind me of 
fair women, and suggest a combination of ardor, 
sentiment and modesty.” 

The bell rang imperatively. 

“They are hungry,” exclaimed Sylvia gaily. “We 
must make haste, or we shall be scolded,” and she 
began to run toward the house. She confined her- 
self to running solely out of respect for appearances ; 
she would willingly have skipped and sung, and 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


219 


been guilty of a thousand follies, so light-hearted 
had she suddenly become. 

On entering the hall she paused for a instant before 
an old fashioned hat tree which stood there to 
smooth her hair, ruffled by the wind^s caresses. As 
she glanced in the mirror she saw that there was a 
new luminous light in her eyes, and experienced a 
thrill of pleasure in her own loveliness. Turning she 
met the count’s gaze for a second time that morning. 

“Yes, mademoiselle, you are beautiful,’’ he said in 
a low voice. 

Sylvia looked at him in open-eyed astonishment. 

“Are you a mind reader? ” she asked in surprise. 

“Sometimes I can read people’s thoughts— when 
there is a bond of sympathy between us.” 

“Are you two never coming?” called Mrs. Sever- 
ance impatiently from the dining room. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


** As for the girl, she turned to her new being, 

Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; 

Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing; 

Grew, as a flower on which the sun rays fall ; 

LoTcd if you will ; she never named it so ; 

Love comes unseen — we only see it go." 

— Austin Dobson. 


Life in Mra. Primrose’s cottage at Burlington was 
conducted in as regular and methodical a fashion as 
if they intended to live there always. Neither she nor 
Inorinski ever mentioned returning to Europe, and 
Sylvia, who had spoken of her contemplated depart- 
ure allowed the subject to drop after a cordial invita- 
tion from her hostess to prolong her visit, and a few 
slight protestations from Eva. 

Each member of the little party pursued their daily 
round of existence; like the planets, each being in a 
measure governed by the actions of the others. Eva 
disappeared daily after luncheon, and remained 
invisible until dinner time. Her mother dosed and 
read the afternoon away. Inorinski went off for long 
rides or walks in the country; while Sylvia usually 
betook herself to a hammock, which hung in a cool 
and shady corner of the veranda, and there indulged 
in day dreams. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


221 


On re-assembling at the dinner table they scrutin- 
ized each other furtively. Sylvia had Irequently 
remarked Eva’s extreme pallor and unusual restless- 
ness; the nonchalant, languid woman, who had for- 
merly accepted all things with careless, graceful indif- 
ference, had become nervous, irritable and depressed. 
Mrs. Severance, on her side, remarked that Sylvia 
was often- preoccupied and thouglitlul, and so anx- 
iously did they study each other that they frequently 
forgot to talk, and conversation languished. 

Count Inorinskiwas always gay, entertaining, and 
agreeable. His pliant, versatile nature adapted itself 
to all occasions, and, added to his perfect savoirfairey 
made him always master of the situation. He was 
gallant, gay and fascinating with the younger 
women, and capable of playing a rubber of whist 
with Mrs. Primrose each evening with every outward 
appearance of pleasure. 

Sylvia’s admiration for him increased daily. She 
experienced when in his society an indescribable feel- 
ing of enthusiasm and pleasure which she could not 
subdue. She was conscious that this man’s society 
was growing daily more necessary to her, but she did 
not know how to withstand the invisible charm 
which drew her nearer to him. She had never learned 
to say “no” to herself; but had always given way 
to any new fancy which took hold of her imagina- 
tion, and how could she now resist this man who 
attracted her as the magnet does the steel? 

They had many tastes in common; both were 
quick of comprehension, witty and gay. Refinement 
of taste, love for all that was beautiful and elegant, 


222 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


fondness for out-of-door sports — above all, the need 
of enjoyment, a sort of greed for pleasure, was com- 
mon to them both. Inorinski was passionately fond 
of music, and played with fire and ardor, and Sylvia^s 
voice, which was really beautiful, was a constant 
source of delight to him. 

Physical contrast also counted for a good deal — 
that contrast which in itself attracts the sexes. He, 
tall and strong, she, fragile and delicate as a bisque 
figure. 

Her admiration forhim reached its height when one 
day she challenged him to shoot against her, betting 
that she could hit the target, a piece of cardboard 
which she had tacked up against a tree, eight out of 
every ten trials. Inorinski watched her for some 
time, and complimented her highly on her ability as 
a markswoman ; then to her laughing remark, 

“Now let us see what you can do. Monsieur le Lieu- 
tenant! he tossed a dollar into the air, and, firing, 
hit it squarely. 

But the pleasantest moments they passed together 
were stolen ones, which they planned and schemed 
for in a manner wdiich gave to their undertakings all 
the interest of a conspiracy. 

In the evenings when Eva reclined lazily on her sofa, 
Mrs. Primrose engaged in a game of solitaire, and 
Sylvia was at the piano, the count would manage to 
approach her for an instant, and in a comically tragic 
manner would whisper: 

“ To-morrow? ” 

Sylvia, without interrupting her song would smile 
and nod ; and he would add ; 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


223 


‘‘The hour?’’ 

Then Sylvia, covering the break in her song by a 
few chords, would answer in a low tone: 

“When the lark sings.” 

“ The countersign ? ” 

Thecountersignchangedfrequently. The first one 
had been: “Flaxen wig and Black Domino; ’’the 
second, “Every fellow for ' himself; ” and the third, 
“If joy could last forever.” It was Inorinski who 
had chosen the last. 

At day-break, while all the other inmates of the 
house were slumbering, and the sun himself was not 
fairly awake, they would be off' for a long ride 
through the lanes and over the meadows. Eva’s 
physician had forbidden her riding; moreover, she 
detested violent exercise, and Sylvia had had recourse 
to this innocent subterfuge to enable her to indulge 
in her favorite pastime without annoying her friend. 
They invariably started off at a gallop, like two lov- 
ers running away, and remained out as long as pos- 
sible, always managing to return to the cottage 
unobserved by its lazy inmates, and retaining during 
the remainder of the day the delightful consciousness 
of having enjoyed a stolen pleasure and of sharing a 
secret together. 

In these long, solitary excursions their acquaint- 
ance made rapid strides toward intimacy. There 
was something in the unbroken quiet of the young 
day, in the ^lewy silence of the meadows, the almost 
chilly freshness of the shadowy woods, which engen- 
dered confidence; and they learned to know each 
other, and conversed with a freedom which they 


224 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


would not have arrived at after months of acquaint- 
anceship in town. 

Sylvia told him everything, relating to him the 
varied experiences of her life from infancy upward, 
entertaining him with the eccentricities of her 
acquaintances, and with clever imitations of their 
peculiarities of speech or manner. She spoke of the 
great sorrow she had sustained in the loss of her 
mother, admitted the mistake she had made socially, 
and how loneliness, and an intense desire for sympathy 
and affection, had led her to accept Mr. Britton. She 
owned that she had made a mistake, and bewailed 
her feebleness of character, and the childish shrinking 
from the sight of pain, physical or mental, which pre- 
vented her from breaking her engagement. In short, 
she gave utterance to every thought which passed 
through her mind, in an outburst of unrestrained con- 
fidence. 

If she had inquired into the sentiment which 
impelled her to place such confidence, such implicit 
trust in Inorinski, she could not have defined it, and 
she would simply have concluded that he was more 
in sympathy with her than any person she had ever 
met. 

Alexis Inorinski had appeared to her toward the 
close of her youth. He was like the grand conelud- 
ing scene of an unsuccessful opera, the resume of 
many wasted years. In him she seemed to find 
oblivion, protection, happiness, passion — everything 
she had hitherto vainly sought and longed for. He 
was art, religion, love — combining in one whole all 
that is generally meted out little by little. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


225 


Each day brought with it a new surprise, a thou- 
sand revelations. She felt herself wiser, better, 
gentler, full of sympathy and compassion. On 
meeting the village children she stopped to caress 
and chat with them, filled with feelings of tender, 
womanly sympathy with their childish needs and joys 
and sorrows. •* The poor, whom she had regarded 
with aversion, now claimed her interest and pity. 
The sky, the trees, all nature, appeared to her in anew 
guise. She loved, but she did not know it; and this 
love not having yet been revealed to herself, she 
never questioned if Inorinski cared for her. 

At this period in the growth of her affection, the 
presence of the unknown God was sufficient. The 
da\'S passed so rapidly that she had no time for 
self-inspection, or the analyzation of her sentiments, 
but only for the enjoyment of this nameless happiness, 
and for pleasure in the contemplation of this budding 
flower of love. 

Count,” she would often say, wemust have met 
in some previous state of existence, for in no other 
way can I explain the rapidity with which we have 
arrived at such a perfect understanding, or the 
strange influence your presence has upon me.” 

Inorinski would reason on this sensation, attribut- 
ing it to magnetic force, and, to affirm his assertion, 
told her that he had never been able to permit his 
thoughts to dwell upon America without his heart 
throbbing violently; and that this was more than a 
mere presentiment, it was a distant but powerful 
force which acted magnetically. 

15 


226 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Although on such intimate terms, Inorinski^s 
manner and conduct was blameless; and what 
pleased Sylvia above all, was the utter absence of 
affectation and ceremony he practiced in the way of 
compliments; any flattering remark he might make 
invariably took the form of a frankly expressed 
opinion. Though fond of ladies’ society, he never 
paid court to them in the usual free and easy style 
which, in the generality of cases, is the manner 
adopted by men who are not brutally indifferent. 

In this respect he was not unlike Mr. Ballantine, 
but Sylvia, comparing them, thought how much more 
sympathetic he was. Everything about him 
betrayed superior culture and refinement; he 
possessed the soft pliancy of velvet, which encircles 
without crushing; the gentle warmth of a ray of 
sunshine, which warms without burning. 

“Yes,” thought Sylvia while riding by his side, 
“my classification was correct.” 

In return for her confidences Inorinski told her of 
his childhood, which had been mostly passed in 
Russia, where he had as his sole companions his 
mother, who was almost always ill or in tears, and a 
tutor who was always in a state of intoxication ; then 
of his experiences at college, the pedantry of the 
professors, and the practical jokes of the collegians; 
his first wild plunge into the vortex of society, his 
joining the hussar regiment, and the gay life at 
Vienna. Of his gallant life there he never breathed a 
word, but Sylvia divined it. 

Once she asked him if, apart from his mother, there 
was no woman associated with the remembrance 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


227 


of his childhood. He replied in the negative, and 
added that he had arrived at the age of sixteen 
before he had ever met a young girl ; but he added, 
‘‘in the long solitude of the winter nights, while my 
tutor lay snoring, I used to go to the library and 
read all I could find with greediness. I was a 
precocious, imaginative boy, and I had an intuitive 
knowledge of women. I searched out the books 
which told the most about them, and devoured 
everything relating to the gentler sex which fell into 
my hands. 

“Then your first acquaintance with women began 
in books 

“Yes ; and, better still, the women learned of there 
opened the way to my imagining a perfect woman, 
to whom I attributed every conceivable charm, and 
who for ten years was the adored object of my 
dreams. The Arabian Nights was my favored book, 
and that which delighted me most in it was not the 
enchanted vases from whence sprang genii, the mar- 
velous lamp, or the magic keys, but the pale sultanas 
with long hair bound with pearls, and gazelle-like 
eyes. I dreamed nightly of the gardens where the 
walks were strewn with precious stones, and the 
fountains of perfumed waters; of satin-lined bowers, 
where eunuchs watched mute and silent over the 
favorites of the king. I was in love with all of those 
women, slaves, queens, and — fairies. 

“While riding alone through the forests I always 
hoped to encounter the sweet face of my dreams; and 
when I say face, I mean that and nothing more; for 
my women consisted of two radiant eyes, a loving 


228 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


mouth, and a regal head of hair. I had no concep- 
tion of the more material part of woman ; they were 
veritable chimeras, and supported solely by two 
great wings.” 

Sylvia would have liked to ask him what his feel- 
ings were when he found that women were not aerial, 
angelic beings, but made of flesh and blood; but, 
hardly daring to, she restrained her curiosity, and as 
they rode onward strove to recall what her first mas- 
culine idea had been. She was forced to admit that 
her girlish illusions had not been transcendental, but 
of the earth, earthy ; and feeling the need of move- 
ment she urged her horse into a gallop. 

One morning she thought she would try the effect 
of a ride without Inorinski, and, rising earlier than 
was usual, she ordered her horse and rode off alone. 
She followed the same road, went by the same 
by-way, passed under the same trees where they had 
often been together, letting her horse walk along at his 
own free will; but the places which ha d hitherto seemed 
so charming now appeared lonely and uninteresting. 
She put her horse to a gallop and urged him on until 
she arrived at a group of pines, where the count and 
she had lingered together the day before. While she 
rested in their shadow, wondering vaguely why the 
morning seemed so chill, and her ride so dull and 
monotonous — if it was possible that she, Sylvia Gil- 
christ, could have become so utterly dependent on a 
man’s society as to be incapable of enjoying what 
had always been her favorite pastime without him 
— she was startled by the sound of galloping feet, and 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


229 


in another moment the object of her meditation stood 
beside her. 

‘‘Truant/’ he cried, “are you not ashamed of your- 
self to try and cheat me out of our ride in such a 
fashion?” 

Sylvia felt a strange.tighteningaroundher throat; 
for an instant everything swam before her eyes, and 
she clutched the pommel to save herself from falling. 
The meaning of all her previous sensations, the pleas- 
ure of the past weeks, the monotony of this morn- 
ing’s ride, all became suddenly plain to her. 

“Heaven help me! ’’she cried to herself. “I love 
this man. I love him 1 ” 

Inorinski, apparently oblivious to Sylvia’s emotion, 
continued laughingly: 

“It is not so easy to steal a march on me, as you 
think. Miss Gilchrist! I am not a man to stand 
quietly by and see myself robbed of a pleasure I 
prize.” 

“I was not robbing you,” returned Sylvia foreing 
herself to speak calmly ; “we had not arranged to 
ride together this morning, and I did not imagine 
that my going alone would aft'ectyou seriously. How 
did you know I had gone? ” 

“I was awake, and, recognizing your step on 
the veranda, I rose and went to the window, 
curious as to where you were going. I watched you 
ride off, then, dressing, followed you as quickly as I 
could.” 

“ How did you know what road T had taken? ” 

“Some instinct told me I should find you here; 


230 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


the magnetic cord which links us together worked 
well this morning/' he added merrily. 

His light tone jarred on Sylvia's overstrung 
nerves. 

‘‘ It must be late," she said coldly ; we had better 
return to the cottage." 

‘Ht was only half past six when I left the house," 
returned Inorinski, ‘‘and I assure you I lost no time 
on the way. We have a good hour and a half before 
us yet. Which way shall we ride? " 

“I don't think I care about riding this morning," 
answered Sylvia quietly. “I feel too lazy for such 
violent exercise." 

The count cast a sharp glance at her. The corners 
of his handsome mouth twitched under his heavy 
moustache; and, if Sylvia had looked up, she would 
have surprised a strange expression in his eyes. 

“So be it. Mademoiselle," said he laughing, “your 
fancy is my law," and turning he led the way 
toward the cottage. 

Mrs. Severance met them on the doorstep. 

“ Here is a telegram for you, Sylvia," she said. 

Sylvia took the yellow envelope and tore it open 
indifferently, but her face changed as she read the 
message. 

“Have you received bad news? "asked Inorinski 
concernedly. 

“My uncle is ill, and wishes me to come to him. I 
must go at once." 

“Is he at Irvington?" Eva asked. 

“No, in New York. He has been off for a week on 
a friend's yacht, and I am afraid the excursion has 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


231 


proved too much for the dear old fellow. I must tell 
Angele to pack immediately/’ answered Sylvia, 
turning toward the house. 

There is nothing to be gained by haste,” said 
Mrs. Primrose who had joined them, ‘Tor, do what 
you like, you cannot catch the morning train now ; 
you will have to wait for the night express.” 

“Surely you would not think of traveling by the 
night train with only your maid for company!” 
exclaimed Inorinski in surprise. 

Mrs. Severance laughed. 

“You do not understand American convenance, 
Alexis,” she said ; “no American girl would hesitate 
to do such a thing, and Sylvia is not an infant. No 
one will run away with her! ” 

Observing that Sylvia seemed agitated and 
distressed at the thought of being obliged to remain 
twelve hours in Burlington when her uncle might 
need her, Mrs. Primrose said kindly : 

“I would not worry, my dear, the telegram does 
not say that your uncle is dangerously ill ; there is 
probably no cause for alarm. Come and have 
breakfast, and I will send a man to town who can 
telegraph for you, asking for the particulars of Mr. 
Gilchrist’s illness, and explaining that you have 
missed the morning train and will leave to night.” 

“Yes, that is the best thing to do,” said Mrs. 
Severance, “and you will soon get an answer, which 
I feel certain will be reassuring.” 

During the rest of the day Inorinski devoted 
himself to Sylvia, never leaving her side, except for 
one moment when Mrs. Severance made some remark 


232 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


to him in German, a language Sylvia did not under- 
stand, when he rose and, crossing to Eva, stood for 
some moments conversing with her in that tongue. 

‘‘I shall escort you to the station, and see you 
safely aboard the train,’' he announced when the 
hour for departure finally arrived. 

A shade of annoyance flitted across Mrs. Severance’s 
face, but she offered no objection to the arrangement, 
and quietly waved aside her mother’s suggestion 
that she too should accompany Sylvia to the 
station. 

You will come back again,” she said to Sylvia, 
seeing her look in such low spirits at leaving. 

“No,” sighed Sylvia, “I have a presentiment that 
our happy summer is at an end.” 

“I think you will return, but it may not be quite 
so pleasant here; perhaps Alexis will have left by 
that time.” 

Before the sphinx-like look of her friend Sylvia 
maintained her composure with difficulty, and 
during the drive to town alone with Inorinski she 
was unable to disguise her agitation. 

“Eva led me to understand that you intended to 
return to Europe very soon, so I shall not see you 
again.” 

“Mrs. Severance is mistaken; no spirit calls to 
mine from over there.” 

Sylvia sighed. 

“I cannot rid myself of the idea that we shall not 
meet again.” 

The words involuntarily escaped her. 

“Why?” he asked. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


233 


‘‘I feel sure of it — an inward voice tells me so.^^ 

‘‘The voice which speaks to me is of my heart, and 
it tells me the contrary/^ answered Inorinski tend- 
erly. 

“It is only to be au revoir, then?” asked Sylvia, 
leaning from the car window to take one last look 
at the man she loved before the train rolled out into 
the night. 

Inorinski looked at her for a moment steadily and 
silently; then he held out his hand, and Sylvia, 
bending from the window, laid hers in it. 

“I shall see you again, and that soon,” he answered 
earnestly. 

And so they parted, with a smile on their lips and 
a clasp of the hand. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes 
Upon me, dear ? Is it so very strange 
That hearts, like all things underneath God’s skies, 
Should sometimes feel the influence of change?” 

—Ella Wheeler. 


There proved to be nothing serious the matter 
with Uncle Dan. He was like a child in one respect, 
inasmuch as he longed for attention and care ; and 
no one knew better than Sylvia how to pet and 
coddle an invalid when she felt in a mood for it. 

•She happened to be in this vein; her growing love 
for Inorinski had the effect of making her amiable 
and caressing; she felt herself so rich in happiness 
that she could afford to diffuse some of it around 
her, and she passed two whole days by the old 
gentleman^s side, reading aloud, and doing her best 
to soothe and amuse him. 

Frequently her thoughts wandered, but still she 
read on, and if sometimes the caresses lavished on 
Uncle Dan had another destination, there was also 
the spontaneous impulse of demonstrativeness which 
led to exclamations of, ‘‘Dear old uncle,^’ and ‘‘My 
dear old boy,^' and the bestowal of little attentions 
and sweet glances which was all the invalid wanted. 

It was not long before she spoke to him of Alexis, 

234 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


235 


and he became at last the one topic of conversation. 
It is true that Mr. Gilchrist frequently dropped off 
to sleep while listening to the recital of Inorinski^s 
virtues or the description of his physical charms; 
but that did not prevent Sylvia^s continuing, for the 
old man’s attention was a mere detail in comparison 
with the overpowering need she felt to speak of her 
lover. 

During these few days she experienced some of the 
delights of intimate home life. She discovered an 
hitherto unknown element of happiness within the 
house. The lowered curtains, the chairs placed in 
close proximity, a cushion left carelessly on the 
ground, suggested thoughts new and tender, and 
strange sensations and desires. Was she beginning 
life again ? 

It seemed to her that she had been deceived in every- 
thing — that she had looked on the wrong side of 
every picture. But one reflection rendered her sad. 
Louis had written that she might soon expect to see 
him, and her heart sank, and she trembled at the 
idea of meeting him. 

How was she to tell him ? It was true that he 
could not accuse her of having deceived him, for he 
had known from the first that her heart was not his. 
She could not see that she was to blame for loving 
Inorinski; she could not foresee when she promised 
Louis to be his wife that this man was to come into 
her life, and that her very soul would go out to him 
in adoration. 

She never for one instant questioned as to what 
she should do, and while she shrank unspeakably 


236 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


from the duty before her, and deplored the necessity 
for it, her resolution to tell Louis the whole truth 
never wavered. 

A hundred times she mentally rehearsed their inter- 
view, planned what she would say and imagined his 
answers; but when, one afternoon, Mr. Britton unex- 
pectedly walked in upon her, all her pre-arranged 
speeches were forgotten, and she could only look at 
him blankly, muttering a commonplace greeting, 
while the words, did not think you would come 
so soon! escaped her with sucb an accent of dismay 
as caused Mr. Britton to look at her in astonish- 
ment. 

“Sylvia, have you no warmer greeting for me than 
that? he asked reproachfully. 

She strove to answer, but her dry lips refused to 
utter a sound. 

“I knew you did not love me as I love you, he 
bitterly, “but I did think you would be glad to have 
me back.’^ 

Still Sylvia remained silent; she could not speak. 

“Speak to me!’’ said Mr. Britton imperatively, 
“What is the matter with you, Sylvia?” 

“There is nothing the matter,” Sylvia answered 
confusedly. 

Mr. Britton’s face grew ashy and rigid. 

“Laura wrote me,” he said, “that all Burlington 
was agog over your intimacy with Count Inorinski; 
that you were constantly together, and that Mrs. 
Primrose claimed it was a case of love at first sight 
with you both. I did not believe the stories, and I 
wrote Laura angrily for repeating such tales ; but 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


237 


your conduct, and the look on your face, makes me 
believe that she told only the truth. Oh, Sylvia, 
Sjd via ! how could you ! ” 

For a moment Sylvia hung her head; then the 
spirit of self-defense leaped up hot within her, and she 
raised it proudly and looked Louis straight in the 
eyes. 

‘‘Believe me, Louis,’’ she said, in a voice which 
trembled in spite of her efforts to control it, “I am 
deeply grieved ; I regret more than I can express the 
pain which my words must give you, but I am not to 
blame, and matters are not as you think. No word 
of love has ever passed between Count Inorimski and 
me. I do not know what his sentiments toward me 
are; though I have reason to think that he loves 
me.” 

She paused for a moment, expecting Mr. Britton 
would speak ; but as he did not do so, she crushed 
back the rising emotion which threatened to over- 
whelm her and continued : 

“When I promised to be your wdfe I told you that 
I did not love you.” 

“Yes, but you told me also that you loved no one 
else! ” he interrupted angrily. 

“I told you the truth, for I had never seen Count 
Inorinski then. I promised to be your wife, and I am 
ready to keep my word. I will marry you in October, 
as we have planned.” 

“Do you love this man, this stranger, of whose 
antecedents and character you know nothing? ” Mr. 
Britton asked hoarsely. 

“Yes.” 


238 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Sjlvia^s voice was almost a sob. 

Mr. Britton did not speak again for some 
moments, and the quiet which reigned in the room 
was so profound that it almost frightened Sylvia. 
She was alarmed at her own heart throbs, and she 
looked at Louis^ white, drawn face in sorrow and 
dismay. Yet she dreaded his next words, fearing he 
might accept her sacrifice. 

At last he spoke, but in a voice so altered that she 
hardly recognized it. 

Then I give you back your freedom, and I hope 
you will find happiness with the man of your 
choice.” 

He turned to leave, when Sylvia sprang to herfeet. 

‘‘Do not go like this!” she cried; “I am so grieved, 
so sorry! Forgive me, Louis! I did not mean to 
wound you, I meant to make you happy! ” 

She broke down and began to cry, covering her face 
with her hands. 

Mr. Britton turned back and laid his hand gently 
on her shoulder. 

“1 have nothing to forgive, dear, it was not your 
fault. You have always been honest with me; itwas 
I who deceived myself. I thought my love was great 
enough to win your heart, and I did not foresee the 
possibility of another’s doing so.” 

Sylvia lifted up her tear-stained face and looked at 
him with an expression of unspeakable gratitude and 
relief; then, seeing the suffering depicted on his 
features she again hid her face in her hands and sunk 
into a chair, weeping bitterly. When she recovered 
sufficient self-control to lookup, the room was empty. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


“Love took tip the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands ; 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out if sight." 

— Tennyson, 


Sylvia waited anxiously for news from Burlington. 
She hoped that Eva would insist on her return, but, 
when two weeks had passed and no letters came, she 
began to feel nervous. 

It was toward the end of August. The heat in 
town was almost insupportable, and the streets pre- 
sented a deserted and dreary aspect. Sylvia would 
have readily left the city and gone to her house in 
Irvington, but Mr. Gilchrist for some unknown rea- 
son’was obstixiately determined to remain in town. 
Sylvia did not combat his resolution very vigorously, 
for in the absence of the man she loved all places were 
much alike to her. He was never absent from her 
mind, day or night ; his image was so vividly before 
her that she was not much surprised, and, any sur- 
prise she did feel was surpassed by a thrill of intense 
joy when, on going out for a walk in the cool of the 
evening, she encountered Inorinski a few steps from 
her own door. 


239 


240 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


“I told you that we should meet again! he said 
as they shook hands. 

“Yes, but I was skeptical, and this is a pleasant 
surprise.’’ 

She was greatly moved; her voice trembled and her 
little hand clung nervously to his, as if she feared he 
would vanish if she let go of it. 

“Well,” said Inorinski at last, smiling, “ will you 
continue your walk, and may I accompany you? ” 

“Certainly.” 

“ What will people think ? ” 

“All my acquaintances are out of town, and their 
opinion is a matter of perfect indifference to me at 
all times,” said Sylvia, a look of contempt crossing 
her features. 

“The world is yourself, then?” returned Inorinski 
smiling. 

Without adding another word they continued to 
walk down the deserted street. 

“I must present you to my uncle,” said Sylvia, 
“ but let us have our walk first.” 

“I am counting on that pleasure, but by all means 
let us have our walk. I feel as if I could fly, I aiA in 
such good spirits.” 

“And Eva — ^how is she? ” 

This name, coming so abruptly in on the conver- 
sation, caused the young man to lose his self-command; 
his usually serene face showed a trace of embarrass- 
ment, and he hesitated a little before replying. 

“Mrs. Severance is well, and loaded me with 
kind messages for you,” He added nothing more. 

A disagreeable remembrance flashed across 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


241 


S\"lvia’s mind, but she hastily drove it away; the 
reality was too bright and blissful to allow it to be 
marred by unpleasant memories. 

They spoke of their rides together, and Sylvia 
asked if he had been out lately. 

“No; I went out onee after you left, but I eould 
not stand it alone. 

She eould have thrown her arms around his neek ; 
and, to eoneeal her delight, she began to laugh, 
playing with her bangles and drawing up her gloves. 
After a short pause she said : 

“Is it not exeessively hot?” 

Both looked at the sky attentively, and then 
their eyes met. 

They spoke of books, pietures, musie. 

“You must try my piano,” Sylvia said; “it is one 
of Steinway’s best, and I faney you will like it even 
better than 3-our vaunted Erard.” 

“I will aeeompany you, and you shall sing me 
Gounod’s Pr/cre.” 

“Si ta savez — ” she hummed the first few words 
softly. 

“Separate the words more, in this way: Si — tu 
savez comme on pleure,^^ he sang in a low tone, but 
his voiee had the ieu sacre, and gave a thrill of 
pleasure to the listener, even when muffled. They 
had uneonseiously direeted their steps toward 
Central park, and were now walking in a quiet alley 
under overhanging trees where they were as mueh 
alone as if a wide gulf separated them from the rest 

of the world. 

16 


X COMMON MISTAKE. 


3^2 

He told her that he was awaiting letters from 
Austria, which would decide the length of his stay in 
America; but that he should prolong it as much as 
possible, as the New World had proved a revelation 
to him. 

‘‘If you will promise not to make sport of me,” he 
said laughingly, “I will confess that it was here, in 
this unknown country, that the dearest face of my 
boyish dreams had its abidingplace.” 

Sylvia, she scarcely knew why, felt complimented. 
He did not say that his boyish vision resembled her, 
but the admiring gleam in his eyes, and the inflection 
of his voice conveyed a subtle flattery. 

A rain, light as infinitesimal pearls, began to fall, 
and a sweet, penetrating odor rose from the damp 
earth. Sylvia opened her lace parasol. 

“That will be no protection to you,” observed 
Inorinski, “it is positively diaphanous!” 

“It is better than nothing,” answ^ered Sylvia. 

“Are you one of those women who can content 
themselves with very little?” he asked, taking her 
parasol and holding it over her; then, before she 
could reply, he added : 

“ No, I am sure you are not 1 ” 

Sylvia made no response, but with a gracious 
little movement, she slipped her hand under his 
arm. 

“That is right,” said he, smiling down on her, and 
pressing the little hand closer to him. 

“Do you pretend to know what manner of woman 
I am?” 

He looked at her, but did not speak. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


243 


They walked rapidly, but the rain began to fall 
more heavily, and the fragile, flimsy parasol soon pre- 
sented the appearance of a wet rag, while S\flvia^s 
light dress adhered to her arms, -and twined itself 
round her limbs in damp, clinging folds. 

“We must hasten! said Inorinski. 

“I cannot walk anyfaster.^^ 

“Why?” 

“My shoes are saturated already; they are like so 
much pulp.” 

“ If I could only take you up in my arms and carry 
you 1 ” 

A sudden thrill of intense passion passed through 
her, and clinging to her companion, with her eyes 
half closed, she allowed herself to be guided along, 
unconscious of everything save that her hand lay 
close tolnorinski^s heart, and that his arm supported 
her. 

They had reached the park gate. 

“ We should find a carriage here,” said the count 
encouragingly, almost carrying her along, looking 
out for the dryest spots, and at the same time scan- 
ning the abandoned thoroughfare for some possible 
means of conveyance. But the street was completely 
deserted ; not a cab was to be seen, and Sylvia grew 
disheartened. ^ 

“I cannot take another step,” she said. 

They were in front of a house which was under- 
going repairs. 

“Let us wait here for a moment,” he replied, draw- 
ing her within the shelter of the open doorway. 


244 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


She leaned against the wall, panting and completely 
exhausted, her breath coming in little gasps, her 
bosom rising and falling tempestuously. 

“You are so delicate,'' he said, “that I am afraid 
this adventure will do you harm." 

“I am not so frail as I look. It is only the rapid 
walk in my wet clothes, which seem to weigh tons, 
which has tired me." 

“Let me see if I cannot squeeze the water out o( 
your shoes." 

She held up one foot after the other for her shoes 
to be taken off, with the confiding air of a child trust- 
ing itself to its natural protector. 

Inorinski shookthe water from the shoes and wiped 
them as dry as he could with his handkerchief ; then 
dropping on one knee he proceeded to replace them. 
In changing her position Sylvia lost her balance and 
had to lean against his shoulder for support. They 
both laughed, and Sylvia retained her position while 
he still held her foot in his hands; but her laugh was 
akin to tears, for with fatigue, excitement, and a 
superabundant delight, she was almost choking. 

The count rose to his feet. 

“ Do you feel a little more comfortable ? " he asked. 

She gave a nod in the affirmative. 

“Lean against me; you will find it better than 
trusting to that cold wall for support." 

Sylvia did as he suggested. 

“What are you thinking of? " after a pause during 
which they had both been watching the steadily fall- 
ing rain. 

“ I could not tell you ! " 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


245 


What had been passing in her mind was that she 
would willingly die at that instant, if she could 
be assured that before throwing off this mortal 
coil she might for one moment lie clasped ininorinski's 
arms. 

Did he divine her thoughts? He half turned, 
murmuring, 

‘^Darling! my darling!’’ as he took her in his arms. 
She started, and made a slight movement as if to 
draw away from him, but he held her firmly. 

‘‘Sylvia, look at me; I want to see your eyes 1 ” 
She trembled and blushed, but did as she was bid, 
lifting her face slowly until he could look directly 
into her eyes. Apparently he was satisfied with 
what he saw there, for after regarding her steadily 
for a moment he bent and kissed her passionately. 

At that instant a man appeared from the interior 
of the house, and, pausing for a moment close to 
them, glanced at them with an expression of intense 
amusement ; then, opening his umbrella, went 
away. 

They started guiltily apart on the stranger’s 
appearance, but as soon as he was out of sight 
Inorinski took Sylvia’s hands in his. 

“Tellme; do you love me?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Enough to be my wife?” 

Sylvia’s heart beat so violently that she could 
not answer. The thing she had longed for, hoped 
for, prayed for, had come to her, and she was stupe- 
fied and faint with the great joy. 


246 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Inorinslvi watched her closely with an expression 
of intense anxiety on his face. 

Will you not even answer me? ’’ hesaidatlast. ‘‘I 
know I am not worthy of your love, but I want it.^’ 

He said nothing further. They stood with their 
eyes fixed on each other, while the beating of their 
hearts was distinctly audible. 

‘^And you,’^ said Sylvia slowly, ‘^are you sure you 
are not making a mistake? ” 

‘H am sure. I love you, Sylvia.’’ 

“Alexis!” she murmured, raising two eyes brim- 
ming over with love and tenderness. 

The rain had ceased, and they were now able to 
leave their temporary shelter. Half way on the 
return home they saw an empty carriage. 

“Shall I hail it ? ” asked Inorinski. 

“Yes; I shall be glad to hide myself from view,” 
answered Sylvia laughing, and glancing at her 
drenched and bedraggled dress. 

“We are a sorry looking pair of lovers I ” 

Their voices were changed, like the strings of a 
harp that have not ceased to vibrate from the touch 
of a master’s hand. 

He lifted her into the carriage, carefully arranging 
her wet skirts. 

“Thank you,” said she. offering her hand. 
Inorinski bent and kissed it fondly, with gracious 
Old World courtesy, before closing the carriage door. 

“ You will come to-morrow ? ” she asked. 

“No power on earth could keep me away ! ” 

The drive home was like a dream, and Sylvia 
found herself in her own room, her dress changed, 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


247 


her feet comfortably ensconced in dry slippers, 
seated by the fire with her uncle at her side, without 
clearly realizing how it all happened. 

Mr. Gilchrist held the Atlantic Monthly on his 
knees, which were wrapped up in a woolen rug. His 
poor, exhausted old brain was in a whirl, and the 
storm which had overtaken his niece, the serial story 
which he had just been reading, the rain, his rheuma- 
tism, and the conduct becoming a young lady were 
all jumbled up in it in one heterogeneous mass. He 
alternately reproved Sylvia for her escapade and 
criticised the first chapter of Craw'ford^s last novel, 
which had just made its appearance. 

Sylvia allowed him to talk. She had seated herself 
on an ottoman by his side and leaned her head 
against the rug, and his rambling comments and 
complaints had almost the effect of a lullaby. 

In order to save him annoyance she had informed 
him that she had not been alone during the storm, 
but had had Count Inorinski for her companion, and 
in the pleasure of speaking of her lover she had 
enlarged on the delights of finding herself, though 
perfectly soaked, alone under a doorway with 
him. 

‘‘It was rather a washerwoman’s pleasure!” 
remarked Uncle Dan, through whose failing mind a 
gleam of wit occasionally passed. 

‘‘Many a princess would have been glad to exchange 
places with this washerwoman,” exclaimed Sylvia 
gaily. 

“This new story of Crawford’s,” said Uncle Dan, 


248 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


recurring to liis first idea, ‘'appears to me to be 
rather exaggerated.^^ 

Sylvia was not listening. She was mentally a dmir- 
ing Inorinski^s neck, and thinking that some day she 
would kiss him just under his chin. 

“Will you read it?^^ asked the old man. 

“Notto-niglit, uncle, dear, I am too tired; butlater 
on I will.’^ 

“You are trembling, child. I fear you have taken 
cold ; put this rug over you ; and he offered the blue 
and white rug as a wrap. 

“No, thank you, I am quite comfortable.’^ 

“You must take a hot toddy before going to bed; 
a cold taken in midsummer is very treacherous, and 
hard to get rid of.” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“You must be more prudent; you do not take at 
all good care of yourself. You — ” 

He stopped, his lips still apart; he had forgotten 
what he was about to sa3^ Gradually his eyes 
closed, his head fell forward on his chest, and the 
Atlantic Monthlyfell from his nerveless fingers. 

Sylvia looked at him. 

“Ah!” she sighed, “how sad it is to be old and 
feeble when life is so bright and happy, and there is 
so much to live for! ” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“There is a courage, a majestic thing 
That springs forth from the brow of pain, full grown, 
Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known. 

. And all the threatening future may yet bring." 

— Ella Wheeler, 


When Paul Ballantine heard of Sylvia’s return, he 
immediately went to see her; and she told him at 
once, her eyes beaming with delight, 

‘‘I am going to be married ! ” 

Mr. Ballantine looked puzzled. 

‘‘Really! I heard your engagement was broken.” 

“To Mr. Britton, yes.” 

“And you have since become engaged to another 
man? ” cried Mr. Ballantine in undisguised astonish- 
ment. 

“Even so; I exercised my woman’s privilege and 
changed my mind. 

“And your lover,” added Mr. Ballantine dryly. 

“Precisely!” resentfully, “and I am verv much in 
love with the man who is to be my husband ! ” 

“ What is his name ? ” 

“Count Alexis, Paul, Ivan Inorinskt; lieutenant in 
the Imperial Hussars,” said Sylvia laughing. 

249 


250 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


^^Inoritiski^ repeated Ballantme thoughtfully. 
‘^The name sounds familiar to me.^^ 

^‘You cannot possibly have met him; he has only 
been in America since the first of July. 

“ And in that time — 

‘‘That seems strange to you, does it not? But it 
is true. In that short time we have met, learned to 
love and agreed to wed. I would not have believed 
such a thing possible myself, if I had not tried it.^^ 

‘ ‘ Inorinski — Inorinski — ' ' 

“You are giving yourself useless trouble, my friend, 
for you cannot possibly have met him, unless you 
have run across each other sometime in Europe.’^ 

“No. Yet I seem to have heard the name before.’’ 

“ Could it have been at the club ? ” 

“Yes! Now I remember, some friends of mine, 
recently returned from Vienna, spoke of him.” 

Nothingmore was said regarding the matter at the 
moment, but a few evenings afterward Mr. Ballan- 
tine said to Sylvia : 

“Is your friend Inorinski’s Christian name 
Alexis? ” 

“Yes — Alexis.” 

Ballantine’s face darkened. 

“Why do you ask? ” 

“Because the man I heard spoken of at the club is 
also called Alexis.” 

“Well, what then? ” 

“I cannot congratulate you on your choice.” 

“Mr. Ballantine, your remark is in very bad 
taste.” 

“Accept it as a quid pro quoJ* 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


251 


Sylvia’s forehead contracted, her eyes flashed 
angrily. 

‘‘Count Alexis Inorinski cannot be confounded 
with any one else.” 

“Didyou tell me he was a lieutenant of Hussars?” 
asked Ballantine coolly. 

“I did.” 

“In the Hussars ! Then it must be he ! ” 

They looked fixedly at each other; both were 
deathly pale. Sylvia shook like a leaf. Ballantine 
felt all the responsibility of his words ; nevertheless, 
he continued without any visible trace of agita- 
tion: 

“I cannot retract anything that I have said.” 
Sylvia shut the fan she held in her hands with a 
sharp snap. 

“You will at least explain your insinuations.” 

“Count Alexis Inorinski, Lieutenant in the Impe- 
rial Austrian Hussars, was obliged to send in his 
resignation for cheating at cards ! ” 

“It is false ! ” cried Sylvia, her lips quivering. 

“His identity withyrour friend remains to be estab- 
lished ; and I will make it my duty to investigate the 
matter, if you, in the name of our friendship, will 
authorize it.” 

Sylvia’s mouth contracted nervously, while her fin- 
gers tore convulsively the feathers of her fan. 

“Mr. Ballantine, if any one but you spoke to me 
in this wise of the man I love, I swear to you that I 
would drive him from the house as I would an ill- 
natured cur.” 


252 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


Ballantine’s face twitched, but he controlled him- 
self, and answered resolutelj’^: 

‘‘And I swear to you that the friendship I bear you 
would not alone suffice to induce me to take such an 
unpleasant and onerous duty upon my shoulders. 

“What then, said Sylvia sarcastically, “induces 
the skeptical Mr. Ballantine to undertake so unpleas- 
ant a task?^^ 

“The promptings of a conscience not yet altogether 
callous, and — ” 

Ballantine checked himself. 

“You have been my friend for 3^ears,you witnessed 
my mother’s death, you essayed to help me bear my 
sorrow. My mother liked and trusted you; and 
because of all these things, I give you permission to 
investigate Count Inorinski’s antecedents. But 
understand, I have no doubts, and am perfectly 
content with what he tells me of himself. You 
make these investigations to satisfy yourself, not 
me.” 

They parted in anger, mutually irritated and hurt. 

Sylvia cried all the evening; she would have gone 
to her uncle for consolation, but the old man was 
incapable of understanding matters clearly; so she 
decided on going to Mrs. Severance, telling her 
ever3^thing, and asking for advice. Inorinski had 
accepted an invitation from some gentleman to 
whom he brought letters, for a week’s fishing in the 
Adirondacks, so there was nothing to prevent her 
from carrying out her plan. 

She reached Burlington in the most pitiable 
condition. Each road, tree and pathway reminded 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


253 


her of the happy past; of the blissful hours spent 
with Inorinski in their long rides together. Again 
she seemed to see his perfect features, his beautiful, 
luminous eyes, his smile; and to hear his voice 
murmuring: 

“I love you.^’ 

“It is impossible!’^ she cried, “impossible!” and 
yet a terrible dread lay on her heart. 

On arriving at the cottage she was told that Mrs. 
Severance was not well, and it was her mother who 
received Sylvia. The two hours which were passed 
in Mrs. Primrose’s society, struggling to sustain a 
conversation with the gossipy, garrulous old lady, 
were a terrible strain on her nerves, and when Mrs. 
Severance at last appeared, Sylvia was on the verge 
of hysterics. 

As soon as Eva entered the room she ran to the 
windows and lowered the blinds, saying that the 
light hurt her eyes ; then embraced Sylvia with an 
almost exaggerated show of affection. They talked, 
talked, talked, without ceasing; spoke on every 
conceivable topic, and yet Sylvia found it impossible 
to speak on the subject nearest to her heart. 

It was not until bedtime, when Eva had come 
into her room to say good night, that, falling on her 
knees beside her, Sylvia managed to ask what she 
knew of Count Inorinski. 

Mrs. Severance replied smilingly, that there were 
some secrets impossible to hide. That she had seen 
from the first the impression which Sylvia had made 
upon her friend, and that nothing pleased her more 
than the idea of their marriage. 


254 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


'‘I congratulate you both heartily/^ she said, 
kissing Sylvia with effusion. 

Sylvia’s heart seemed to expand. How could she 
have doubted him? And on such grounds— mere 
club scandal! She blushed at the memory of it, and 
not for worlds would she have mentioned the story 
to Eva now. It must have been pure calumny. She 
merely observed carelessly to Eva : 

“He is an old friend, and you know all about him, 
do you not ? ” 

“Alexis Inorinski? Most certainly, we have 
known him for years ; and Phil is devoted to him. 
He is honor and loyalty personified. He is not 
rich — ” 

“Oh!” interrupted Sylvia with an impatient 
gesture. 

“I know,” continued Eva, “you are too generous 
to care for that. He is of noble family ; you will 
bear a fine old name, and his love is a treasure in 
itself. The amount of affection he showers on you 
should satisfy any woman’s heart! ” 

“Has he told you that he loves me? ” 

“Of course, and indulged in no end of rhapsodies. 
He is madly in love with you.” 

Eva’s voice sounded strained and weary, but 
Sylvia was too radiantly happy to perceive it. All 
her doubts had vanished; she was cognizant of 
nothing save her own exuberant bliss. 

They spoke at length regarding her marriage, 
discussing time and place, and plans for the future. 

“Alexis is so impatient,” said Sylvia, “he wishes 
to be married inside of six weeks, for he says he may 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


255 


be recalled to Austria at any time, and he does not 
wish to return without me.^^ 

‘‘You will do as he wishes, will you not?’^ Eva 
inquired with an odd quiver in her voice. 

“ I think I shall have to. I don^t believe I could 
bear to have him leave me — to have the ocean between 
us, even though I know he would return.” 

“Do you love him so very dearly, then ? ” 

Sylvia rose to her feet, her face transfigured. 

“I love him — Oh, Eva! What is the use of my try- 
ing to put my passion into words! You have loved, 
you should know what it is yourself.” 

Mrs. Severance looked as if she was going to faint. 

“Yes,” she said in a hard voice, “I do know what 
it is.” 

Eva had announced the date of her departure for 
Europe, but she yielded to Sylvia^s earnest entreaties 
to remain until after the wedding. 

“ I am sacrificing wifely duty and maternal love to 
friendship,” she said, as she rose and kissed Sylvia 
good-night. “My husband and son must wait a 
little longer. I will accompany you to the altar 
myself. Ifyoulike, I will give you away ! ” she added 
laughing. 

Sylvia laughed too. 

“I fancy Uncle Dan would object to anyone but 
himself performing that duty,” she said gaily. 

When Sylvia took her place in the train the next 
afternoon she was in a state of perfect beatitude. She 
felt like a person who has undergone successfully a 
difficult and dangerous surgical operation, on which 
life itself depended. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


** Quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat.” 


On the following day Count Inorinski presented 
himself, tender and devoted, but with a tinge of mel- 
ancholy in his manner, which rendered him, if pos- 
sible, even more fascinating. Sylvia, who felt guilty, 
remembering her lack of confidence, received him with 
more than usual graciousness. 

‘‘You seem sad,’^ vshe said. 

“I feel a trifle so.^^ 

“Are love and melancholy in accordance with each 
other? ’’ Sylvia asked quizzically. 

“More frequently than people suppose,’^ the count 
answered seriously. 

“And does regret sometimes intermingle with affec- 
tion?^^ 

“Sometimes. For instance, a man regrets all his 
past follies when he is truly in love with a pure 
woman.’’ 

“I think that is a little like crying over spilled milk! 
If a man truly loves a woman, and is determined to 
commit no more follies but to cleave only unto her, 
she ought to be contented. While he has the right to 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


257 


think, that while he was a bachelor, owing allegiance 
to no one, he was privileged to do as he chose. 

‘‘That is true, but youthful indiscretions sometimes 
entail unpleasant consequences. I have just received 
disagreeable news.’’ 

Sylvia trembled, but soon regained her calmness 
on ascertaining that it only concerned a loss of 
money. 

“Is it only that ? ” she exclaimed. 

“Would you still love me, if you knew I was 
wretchedly poor, and had nothing to offer you save 
myself? ” 

The full strength of her love shone in her eyes, and 
quivered in her voice, as she answered : 

“Alexis, it is you I love! I am not marrying you 
for a title, or social advantage! ” 

“Oh, my love! my darling one! I will try to make 
you happy ! ” 

He kissed her fondly, and, taking her hands, con- 
tinued in a low, tender voice, like a child confessing 
his faults : 

“I am not worthy of you — ” 

“I love you just as you are ; were you perfection, 
perhaps I should not care for you ! ” 

“I have led a wild life, I have been imprudent and 
reckless, and have made myself enemies.” 

Sylvia felt hot anger burning within her against 
the wickedness and injustice of the world. This 
then,was the extent of Inorinski’s wrongdoing; he had 
been imprudent and reckless, and he confessed this 
to her as if they had been grave crimes. His con- 
fession increased her love, and created in her heart 

17 


258 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


the desire to re-establish him in his former position. 
She was ready to defy the world for his sake, and 
she wished she was a queen that she might raise him 
to her level. 

He gave her a full account of his financial troubles, 
and related how a point of honor had obliged him 
to leave his regiment. Spoke of his plans for the 
future, and of his desire that they should spend the 
first of their married life in Russia. 

Sylvia listened to everything in silence, responding 
to all his tender glances by a pressure of the hand, 
her heart swelling with an affection which could not 
find relief in words. 

She lived her life over again while listening to his 
recital; no one could better understand what his 
experience had been, for had not she too been 
misunderstood and calumniated ? Did she not know 
how it hurt to have one’s good name assailed? 

She thought of him, petted and spoiled, alone in 
the world, misunderstood ; too noble to sink to the 
base level of the majority of mankind, imprudent, 
daring, proud, disdainful! Oh, the cowards! The 
cowards ! How had they dared malign him so ! 

She no longer remembered Paul Ballantine, nor 
his accusations, and passionately in love, completely 
in sympathy, the two lovers spent a perfect evening 
together. 

The count had left Burlington and settled himself 
in town, so as to be near his £nancee who was 
making rapid preparations for their marriage. He 
was daily at the house, and in less than a week he 
had made so complete a conquest of Uncle Dan that 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


259 


the old gentleman counted on his visits with an 
impatience almost equal to that of his niece. 

“You are a charmer! she remarked to him once. 
“In one of the books I had when a child, there was 
a story of a man who could charm everyone — people, 
children, snakes; he had some wonderful power which 
attracted all things to him, and you in someway 
remind me of him.^’ 

“I am an awful scamp I “ responded Inorinski, 
“but I fancy I am rather a loveable one, for children 
and animals always make friends with me, and the 
people I have ill-treated the worst, have always 
seemed to suffer, even in chastising me.’’ 

Sylvia looked at him curiously. 

“You are always accusing yourself,” she said; 
“have you ever done anything really bad, or been 
seriously unkind to anyone? ” 

Inorinski’s usually bright face grew serious. 

“I am afraid I have not always been a model of good 
deportment,” he answered gravely, “but I am going 
to reform, and when you are once my wife and I have 
you always by my side to keep my feet in the straight 
path and encourage me in well doing, I shall practice 
all the cardinal virtues.” 

“I don’t doubt you will make an exemplary hus- 
band,” exclaimed Sylvia, enthusiastically. “ My con- 
fidence in you is boundless! ” 

Inorinski knew how to appeal to all Mr. Gil- 
christ’s small weaknesses, and had the art of appear- 
ing deeply interested in whatever the old man said. 
Uncle Dan’s strength had been rapidly failing ever 
since the violent attack of gout which he had had in 


260 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


August, and he was often querulous and wearisome, 
but the count knew how to make it appear as if he 
was the aged invalid’s contemporary, so aptly did he 
fall in with his views and ways of thinking, listening 
patiently to the old gentleman’s reminiscences and 
sympathizing with his regrets. 

He possessed an impressionable nature, a delicacy 
of perception and a subtle intelligence, capable of 
seizing every delicate shade of thought and mean- 
ing. 

The papers establishing his identity and proving 
his claim to his title, for which Inorinski had written 
to Russia, had arrived; and the wedding was to take 
place early in November; everything was going on 
smoothly under a clear and serene sky, when one day 
Sylvia received a note from Mr. Ballantine. It was 
brief. 

regret deeply,” he wrote, ^Hhatmy sense of duty, 
of friendship, compels me to tell you that my suspi- 
cions were but too well founded. There is but one 
Alexis Inorinski, but he is no longer a lieutenant in 
the Austrian hussars, having been cashiered from the 
army for cheating at cards. He is a titled, but not 
an honest man.” 

Sylvia read the note over several times before she 
tore it into shreds. Then she wrote: 

“I do not acknowledge the right of even my oldest 
friend to traduce the one personinallthe world whom 
I both esteem and love. My sole request, made in 
the name of the friendship which you profess to enter- 
tain for me is, that you will not repeat this story.” 

Mr. Ballantine replied neither by word nor letter. 


A COMMON MIST'AKE. 


261 


Certainly it was not Ills intention or desire to be mixed 
up in such a delicate family matter. 

Meanwhile Sylvia reflected. A very little affair, she 
argued, can be exaggerated into a serious misde- 
meanor. A slight imprudence, an infraction of dis- 
cipline, a moment of excitement, a stroke of bad 
luck, and a man easily gets into trouble. She remem- 
bered various blameless little occurrences which had 
brought her also into disfavor with society, and she 
laughed bitterlj^ and disdainfully. 

‘‘Ah, well, even if he were more culpable than Bal- 
lantine claims he is, I should still love him! 

Dismissed from the army! 

Somehow those words rang in her brain, causing 
her to feel sick and faint as she pictured Alexis dis- 
graced, scorned, obliged to lower his noble, haughty 
head; and to go into exile, alone and abandoned. 
Her nerves were incapable of enduring more, her 
arms fell helplessly to her side, her heart beat to suf- 
focation, and a choking sensation rose in her throat; 
her lips moved as if in mute supplication. She would 
not, could not, condemn him; and after having tacitly 
admitted that her lover was guilty, it seemed to her 
she only loved him the more. 

She attached herself to this man with passionate 
fury, and she determined to defend him in spite of the 
world, in spite of herself. Inorinski, stainless, still 
belonged to society; guilty, he belonged to her alone. 
The love she had never known before obtained a 
mastery over her, attained only by later passions. 
The knowledge of time wasted urged her onward; 
the threatened advance of age, the realization that 


262 


A COMMON MISTAKE* 


the first bloom of her youth had faded, warned her 
and cried : 

Make haste to enjoy ! 

And Inorinski was at her feet, ardently in love, 
and as handsome as a god. 

Sylvia was busy over her trousseau, and with the 
experience of a fashionable beauty she strove to com- 
bine in one supreme effort all the glories of her past 
triumphs. But alas! The consummation was 
impossible, for the eccentricities, which would have 
been crowned with success at twenty, could not be 
risked at twenty- eight. 

Regret for her wasted youth, wasted so uselessh% 
mingled with the joy she felt in the midst of these 
preparations. How fresh and full of life she had 
been I Oh 1 If she had only been able to give Inorinski 
her beauty intact, the freshness of former days ; if she 
could only combine the attractions of her early youth 
with that of her more matured charms! 

She was far from being innocent minded; she under- 
stood thoroughly the important part that the senses 
play in the matter of love. And, brought up in the 
worship of the beautiful, she admired it too much not 
to believe it indispensable; and she desired to be at 
once the object of her lover’s adoration and of his 
passion. 

She fondled her hand"*., feeling grateful to them for 
being still so perfect, so pure and lovely in their delicate 
moulding. She let down the masses of her blond hair, 
and was thankful that it still remained so long, so 
thick and glossy. She consulted the mirror a thou- 
sand times, tried again and again her various toilets. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


263 


and rejoiced when her beauty shone out in all its for- 
in r glory; when nature, having reassembled all her 
forces, lavishly bestowed upon her the fairness and 
freshness of youth. 

Havingindulgedin a perfumed bath, added a touch 
of rouge to her cheeks, darkened her lashes, and 
donned a becoming costume, she would leave the mir- 
ror contented with herself, and under the influence of 
this elation her eyes shone, and the bright smile of 
former years played around her lips. But she alone 
knew how hopeless were her feelings, when, on exam- 
ining herself critically in the bright sunlight, she saw 
fine lines round her eyes and at the corners of her 
mouth, and realized how pitilessly time had dealt 
with her. 

What had despoiled her beauty? Not kisses, nor 
those ardent caresses which seemed to burn like 
fire; not the desires which ripen into ecstasy, and in 
one long embrace hold the concentrated delight of 
years. She, virgin, pure as snow, who had never 
given herself to love — alas ! Time had ravished her. 

Oh! To live over again; to regain her vanished 
girlhood ! This was the supreme desire — the despair- 
ing cry that broke from Sylvia’s heart. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

'‘LrOve came to me and found me sitting lonely; 

Love went from me, left me more lonely still. 

Oh why, I cried, does love to us bring only 
Some unknown ill ?’* 

— Georgz W. Jones. 


Mr. Daniel Gilchrist gave a reception to which 
he invited the members of the family and all his 
intimate friends, in order to formally present to 
them his future nephew, Count Inorinski. 

His presentation was a veritable triumph to Sylvia. 
Compliments flowed in from every side, for Inorinski 
charmed all their guests as he had done the 
members of the family circle. She was delighted 
with his success, and more than ever determined 
to be his wife. 

She went up to Mr. Ballantine, smiling from the 
height of her happiness, and offered him her hand. 

“I have forgiven you, she said. ‘‘I am so happy 
that I can afford to be generous; and for fear of 
confusing you, I will not even ask your personal 
opinion of my future husband. 

Sylvia had never looked more beautiful; her black 
tulle dress, which hung about her in misty folds, 
enhanced the brilliant clearness of her complexion, 
and gave an added glitter to her golden hair. Her 

264 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


265 


eyes were shining, her lips wore a happy smile, her 
face was radiant ; and as she stood there smiling 
and fanning herself with a great black gauze fan, on 
which the little blind god firing his aimless arrows 
at a group of laughing nymphs who were pelting 
him with flowers was exquisitely depicted, the 
lawwer thought he had never beheld a lovelier woman. 

Ballantine did not answer at once, but regarded 
Sylvia with such a look of compassion that her con- 
fidence wavered. 

‘‘Come, don’t be unkind! Why do you wish to 
destroy these few hours of happiness ? ” 

“I am the last person who dcvsires to disturb your 
happiness. God knows I would gladly insure its 
permanency, if it lay in my power! ” 

“Come and sit beside me,” she said, determined to 
convince him of his mistake, and leading the way 
toward a quiet corner. After all, he was her oldest 
friend, and she could not be indifferent to his cold- 
ness and disapproval. 

“ Be reasonable, Mr. Ballantine,” she said, when 
he had taken his place beside her on the sofa. “How 
do you suppose I could attach any importance to 
youthful follies and debts when the sinner is thor- 
oughly repentant, and gives me his life and all his 
love? ” 

“Listen!” said Ballantine, making an effort to 
appear calm. “This is not the time, or place, to dis- 
cuss such a question; moreover, you would not 
believe me, even if I told you that he is — ” 

He had stopped just in time, for a ghastly paleness 
overspread Sylvia’s features. 


266 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


The lawyer looked at her pityingly. 

‘‘You see, dear,’^ he said gently, “you are not 
strong enough to bear the truth.” 

It was the first time that he had ever used a term 
of endearment in addressing her; but a profound 
feeling of compassion possessed him, and the epithet 
escaped him in spite of himself. 

“Answer me one question,” Sylvia gasped. “Is the 
thing which prejudices you against Count Inorinski 
something which you honestly believe would ruin my 
wedded life — something you feel I ought to know ? 
Answer me on your honor! ” 

“Yes.” 

Mr. Ballantine’s voice was almost a whisper. 

“Then,” said Sylvia, so low that he could hardly 
catch the words, “I will be strong, I must hear it — 
but not now.” 

“You are right — but not at this moment.” 

Sylvia rose hurriedly, and walked rapidly away. 
She was scarcely conscious of what she was doing; 
suddenly she ran against Mrs. Severance. 

“Why, dearest!” the latter exclaimed, “how pale 
you are! ” 

“Eva, do you love me? Tell me, if you do; I need 
to hear it! ” 

Eva looked at her in startled surprise. 

“Of course I love you,” she said soothingly, “but 
here comes someone to whom you are even dearer 
than to me, and who can tell you so very much bet- 
ter than I can. Alexis!” she called softly, “come 
and take charge of this foolish young woman, and 
discover, if you can, what is the matter with her.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


267 


Inormski advanced smiling, but his smile vanished 
and a look of intense anxiety took its place as he 
noted Sylvia’s extreme pallor and troubled mein. 

“Are you ill, darling? ” he asked with tender solici- 
tude in voice and manner. 

“Yes. No — I don’t know!” scarcely conscious of 
what she was saying. 

“You are over tired,” said Inorinski kindly. 
“Come with me to some quiet nook where you can 
rest awhile. I will get you a glass of wine; you need 
a bracer I ” He drew Sylvia’s hand through his arm. 
“Come, dearest,” he said. 

He did not require to add another word, for Sylvia 
as she looked at him forgot Ballantine’s very existence, 
but during the night, and even the following day, 
his words, his serious, troubled air, frequently 
recurred to her. What could it be, this thing, which 
he thought might ruin her life with Alexis? Her 
knowledge of the lawyer’s character was so thor- 
ough as to force her to admit that it would require 
more than mere personal prejudice, or the recital of 
idle tales, to cause him to take so determined a stand. 
She knew him to be a man of rigid integrity, and not 
a person to make an assertion which he could not 
verify; and gradually a chill of doubt and fear crept 
over her. Old doubts, long dormant, regarding the 
disinterestedness, honesty and loyalty of mankind, 
reawakened. She felt that she could never be happy 
while such doubts tortured her, and that at all haz- 
ards she must know what Ballantine had to say — 
what crime he accused her lover of. 


268 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


She wrote to him, imploring him, by all he held 
most dear, to tell her all that he knew about 
Inorinski. 

Mr. Ballantine answered her note in person on the 
afternoon of the same day. Sylvia met him calmly ; 
she had nerved herself for the interview. 

“In sendingfor methis afternoon, he said gravely, 
“you are testing my friendship severely. Very few 
men in my place would accept the responsibility of 
destroying such a faith as yours. But I am willing 
to accept it, if I can save you from what I believe will 
be a life of misery.^’ 

He paused, looking at Sylvia inquiringly. 

“Go on,’^ she said calmly, “it is too late to draw 
back now. 

“If I had a sister, and she were on the point of wed- 
ding Inorinski, I would tell her, as I now tell you, 
Sylvia Gilchrist, that he is an adventurer, and false 
to you.” 

Mr. Ballantine expected either to see Sylvia faint, 
or fly into a passion; but she remained calm and 
erect in her chair, her hands clenched together, her 
lips contracted, and her eyes wide open. 

“The proofs! ” she said in a stifled voice. “If you 
wish me to believe 3"Ou, give me the proofs.” 

“ Without fortune, accustomed to a gay life, having- 
lost his position in Vienna by gambling — ” 

Sylvia interrupted him quickly : 

“ These are not proofs, sir I ” 

“Obliged to resign from the army, desperate, with- 
out a sou, his reputation gone, he came to America 
and took refuge with his mistress, Eva Severance.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


269 


‘‘The proofs, the proofs! murmured Sylvia, almost 
suffocating with anguish. 

Ballantine looked at her compassionately. 

“The proofs will come; meanwhile, consider the 
facts. On one side Inorinski, driven to desperation 
and on the verge of suicide. On the other, his mis- 
tress, who adores, but cannot save him, having no 
fortune at her control, and having already spent 
enormous sums upon him. And standing between 
them, deceived, betrayed by both — 

Sylvia made a supplicatory gesture. She had often 
endured the humiliation of knowing herself sought 
for simply on account of her money; but this time 
the idea was more than she could bear. 

It seemed to her like a hateful nightmare, from 
which she struggled vainly to awake. Visions of the 
past appeared to her memory, details which at the 
time had seemed insignificant, glances, words spoken 
in an undertone, signs passing between them. Mrs. 
Severance’s agitation on Inorinski’s arrival, their 
intimate conversation invariably carried on in a lan- 
guage which she did not understand; the night she 
had surprised them at the piano. And yet — and yet, 
Inorinski’s ardent glances, the tender tone of his voice 
when he spoke to her — was it all feigned — had he not 
loved her a little? Had she been wholly deceived ? 

Seeing her absorbed in her reflections, Mr. Ballan- 
tine, divining the mental struggle which she was 
engaged in, wished to put an end to her doubts by a 
decisive stroke. 

“Lastly,” said he, “one clear, inconfutable proof 
of all this is that — ” 


270 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


But Sylvia did not allow him to finish. A prey to 
the most painful agitation, she stretched out her 
arms toward Ballantine, her face agonized, con- 
vulsed; and, like a drowning man clinging to his 
one last chance of salvation, she cried : 

“It does not matter — say no more! Admit that 
he has not been faithful to his words, that he has 
cheated, that he has run away, even that he has 
been Eva’s lover; I can forgive him all that, for now 
he is mine. Mine ! Do you understand that, Mr. 
Ballantine t He is mine, he belongs to me, I love 
him, and what does it matter to me what he has 
been? What do I care for the opinion of the world ? 
I love him, and that is enough ! ” 

She spoke rapidly, incoherently, in a beseeching 
voice, as though praying the lawyer to agree with 
her, her eyes swimming with tears. 

Mr. Ballantine did not like his role of executioner. 
He felt deeply for her, and his own eyes were not 
dry as he took her hands in his, and gently — choos- 
ing his words so as to wound her as little as possible 
— tried to pursuade her that she must not indulge in 
any illusions. Count Inorinski was still Mrs. 
Severance’s lover. 

“But,” cried Sylvia, in a sudden paroxysm of 
anger, “why did you not speak of this sooner? Why 
did you allow the announcement of my marriage? 
Why did you not appear bravely as his accuser? 
You are a hypocrite, a vile slanderer, who does not 
dare speak openly I A coward, who attacks a man 
behind his back! ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


271 


Two scarlet spots dyed Ballantipe’s cheeks; his 
e^^es flashed ; but it was only for a moment. 

‘‘Have you forgotten how you accepted my first 
words of warning? I had no right to insist that 
you should listen; moreover, at that time I was 
ignorant of much that I now know regarding the 
man. I spoke merel}^ on the grounds of some asser- 
tions made by friends who had met and mixed in the 
same society with the count in Vienna. I told you 
then he was an adventurer, or something of the sort, 
but it was only a few days ago that a circumstance 
which is immaterial to you, placed in my hands the 
secret of the intrigue existing between him and Mrs. 
Severance.^’ 

Sylvia, who had in a measure recovered herself, 
begged him to explain everything fully ; and he con- 
tinued : 

‘‘Mrs. Severance, whom you believe staying in 
Vermont, is only there for form’s sake; she comes to 
New York weekly, and stays with Inorinski.” 

“How do you know this?” Sylvia demanded. 

Ballantine hesitated for amoment, then, evidently 
thinking that it was useless to withhold anything 
said: 

“A friend of mine has rooms in the same house as 
the count, and on the same floor; she has seen Mrs. 
Severance, whom she knows by sight, come there 
repeatedly. And I have seen her myself.” 

A sharp cry escaped Sylvia; but clinging obsti- 
nately to a forlorn hope she exclaimed: 

“That does not count for much ; they are very inti- 
mate friends and have many interests in common!” 


272 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


^‘That is true^ but where is the necessity for dis- 
cussing these mutual interests in the count’s bed 
chamber? Pardon my plain speaking, but this is 
not the time to disguise matters.’’ 

“How do you know that their conversation is 
carried on in the count’s private apartment? ” 

Mr. Ballantine flushed. 

“My friend’s room adjoins his; the partition is 
thin, and voices, even words, are distinctly audible.” 

For several moments Sylvia remained silent, appar- 
ently absorbed in thought; then she asked abruptly: 

“Has Mrs. Severance any particular day for com- 
ing to town? ” 

“She usually comes — indeed, always — on Wednes- 
days.” 

“Oh, Heavens ! ” she moaned, recollecting that that 
was the one day in the week which her lover never 
spent with her. 

“I must see and judge for myself! ” she cried. 

“See what? ” 

“Them. I must see them I” 

Mr. Ballantine looked at her in amazement. 

“That would be the surest proof,” he said, “but in 
order to see — ” 

Sylvia, understanding his hesitation, smiled sarcas- 
tically. 

“Oh! I am not afraid of contamination. It will 
not pollute me to go into your friend’s apartments, 
I imagine, and you ought to know me better than to 
imagine that under the circumstances I would shrink 
from anything. Will you take me there? ” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


273 


The lawer hesitated ; the proposition was far from 
agreeable to him. 

“It is Wednesday,” continued Sylvia, “and it is, I 
imagine, about the hour when they are likely to be 
found together. Will you take me ? ” 

“No.” 

“Then,” Sylvia hissed through her clenched teeth, 
“since you refuse to help me obtain the proof I wish 
for, I believe you have spoken falsely. You are a liar, 
Mr. Ballantine! ” 

The lawyer took two or three rapid turns up and 
down the room, then, pausing before the excited 
woman, he looked at her more in pity than in anger. 

“Very well, I will take you.” 

Sylvia rang for the maid. 

“Bring my hat and cloak, and tell Tompkins to 
call a cab.” 

“Tell her to bring you a veil, also — a thick one,” 
said Mr. Ballantine in a low tone. 

Sylvia was in a state of feverish excitement, and 
moved restlessly about the room until the butler 
announced that tJie cab was waiting. 

The drive was taken in silence. When the carriage 
stopped in Eighteenth street she would have stepped 
out at once, but Ballantine opposed this, telling her 
she must wait until he had seen his friend and made 
arrangements for her admission to the apartment, 
hoping that this delay would prevent her carrying 
out her intention. He was absent for some time; it 
seemed an eternity to Sylvia. v 

As soon as he appeared, she asked impatiently: 

“ Well, can I go in now ? ” 

18 


274 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘Wait a moment/’ still hoping to dissuade her. 

“ No, no, I cannot ! Let us go in ! ” 

She pushed the carriage door open violently and 
got down, Ballantine being compelled to accompany 
her. She said nothing, but entered the house and 
mounted the stairs in silence, arriving more dead 
than alive in a small darkened room. Ballantine 
made her sit down, and sat beside her holding her 
hand like a doctor feeling a patient’s pulse. The par- 
tition dividing them from the next room was veiw 
thin, and the sound of voices could be easily distin- 
guished. Only occasional words could be understood, 
but the count’s deep tones, and Mrs. Severance’s 
peculiar penetrating, languid voice were easily recog- 
nized. 

“This is enough, is it not? ” whispered Ballantine, 
feeling Sylvia’s nails penetrating his flesh. 

She did answer, but rising softly, crept to the wall 
and laid her ear against it. She felt as if she could 
have torn down the partition against which she 
leaned in her eagerness to learn more. Her very heart 
stood still to listen. 

She heard Eva say : 

“I will not bear it ,' I do not trust you; I believe 
you are breaking faith with me ! ” 

“You are unreasonable ; you do not seem to realize 
that my position is a very delicate one; you must 
have patience,” Inorinski’s voice responded. 

“Patience ! Have I not been patient ? ” 

“Yes, but you must be so a little longer.” 

“You spend all your time with her; there is no 
necessity for it — you could come to me if you chose! 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


275 


I tell you, Alexis, I will not bear it! I will tell her 
everything, I will — 

“Would you ruin my only chance of salvation? 

“No, no, I do not know what I am saying. But I 
love you, I am jealous.’’ 

The listener could not hear the count’s reply dis- 
tinctly. She would have given all she possessed for 
one glimpse into the adjoining room. Each sigh, each 
sound conveyed a distinct meaning to her strained 
mind. No reality could be more terrible than this 
interview in which she secretly participated, which 
had dispelled her last delusion, crushed her last hope. 
She drew back from the wall, reeled and fell into Mr. 
Ballantine’s arms, who carried her in a semi-con- 
scious condition back to the carriage. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“O Heart, tired out with pain to-day, 

A thousand years to come 
Th-y pain will all have passed away, 

Thy crying shall be dumb. 

As gayly bird wings o’er the river 

As if this pulse, with pain a-quiver. 

Still leaped, with gladness half-divine: 

To thee, to all, it is as one 
When once thy restless years are done.” 

— Anon, 


It was late in the evening when Sylvia and Mr. 
Ballantine found themselves once more alone. The 
contact with the frosty night air on their homeward 
drive had restored the unhappy woman to conscious- 
ness; she had rallied all her forces, as a gallant racer 
rallies his failing strength for one last supreme effort, 
and, to the lawyer^s astonishment, she had borne up 
bravely all the evening, faced the ordeal of dinner, 
where old Mr. Gilchrist talked unceasingly of his new 
favorite, praising and lauding Inocinski to the skies, 
and had responded to all his wandering questions as 
to what could be keeping the count away that even- 
ing, with perfect composure. But when the old man 
had at last departedlier strength deserted her, and, 
turning from biddii|Ptier uncle good night, she tot- 
tered, and would have fallen had Ballantine not 
sprung to her assistance. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


277 


She now laj extended on the lounge, the deep 
crimson covering of which intensified the ghastly 
pallor of her drawn face. 

Ballantine hardly knew how to console her, recog- 
nizing the powerlessness of words, and feeling ut- 
terly helpless in the presence of this terrible, mute 
despair. 

At intervals and after painful silences, he tried to 
speak of resignation and courage, but Sylvia inter- 
rupted him with an impatient gesture. 

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Ballantine, you mean kindly, 
and I feel that you are sorry for me ; but it is use- 
less.’’ 

After a little pause she said slowly : 

“What an advantage those have who are accus- 
tomed to suffer! Those who have had many sor- 
rows must know better how to bear pain. And 
what an unspeakable advantage it is to believe ; to 
have faith in a supreme power which orders all 
things for the best ; but I can do neither. I was never 
taught to pray, and I have loved him — him alone.” 

“Life is long, and time will bring consolation. 
You are young; you will live to see the day when 
you will forget all this and be thankful for your 
escape.” 

“Perhaps.” Her voice was hopeless. 

“You must be more courageous ; you have made a 
mistake, it is true, and received a cruel blow, but 
you must begin over again.” 

Sylvia shook her head. 

“I have done with life.” 


278 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


There are matiy good reasons for beginning it 
over again.” He strove to speak cheerfully. 

‘‘Not for me. I have failed in everything. Why 
should I begin again ? What is the good of strug- 
gling?” 

Her voice was so listlessly indifferent, she looked 
so broken that Ballantine’s heart sank in discourag- 
ment. 

He thought he would try a new tack. 

“Have you thought how you will break your 
engagement? ” he asked, “and what reason for the 
rupture you will give to the world ? ” 

“No, I have thought of nothing.” 

“There must not be any scandal.” 

“I suppose not, but it does not matter,” wearily, 
“nothing matters now ! ” 

Mr. Ballantine felt a lump rise in his throat, and 
turned away his head, so that Sjdvia should not see 
hovT moved he was. 

“Will you leave the matter in my hands?” he 
asked, “and permit me to find a way out of the 
dilemma and invent a story which will account for the 
annulment of your engagement? Do not fear,” he 
added, seeing that Sylvia looked uncertain; “I will 
arrange matters so that Inorinski^s treachery shall 
not be suspected. You shall not be humiliated before 
the world.” 

“You are very thoughtful, very kind; I will gladly 
leave it all in your hands. You are sure to manage 
much better than I could.” She laid her hand with 
a pathetic gesture over her wounded heart. “There 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


279 


IS such a pain here/^ she said, ^‘that it renders me 
incapable of thinking.” 

“I will attend to everything; your interests and 
3"Our honor are safe in my hands.” 

‘‘What time is it?” Sylvia asked. 

“Teno^clock. Will 3^ou not go to bed now, and 
try to rest? ” 

“Yes.” 

“We will talk again to-morrow.” 

Sylvia looked at Mr. Ballantine fixedly for a few 
moments; then, half rising, supporting herself on the 
cushions of the coueh, she said abruptly: 

“Mr. Ballantine, what makes you so kind to me? 
What motive has actuated you, who are usually so 
skeptical, so indifferent, so averse to meddling with 
any one’s affairs, save in the way of business, to 
interest yourself so in me ? ” 

“Can you not guess? ” answered the lawyer slowly. 

“Is it possible? ” she said in a low voice, wonder 
and surprise in her eyes, “that you — ” She hesitated. 

“Yes,” said Ballantine deliberately, “Hove you. I 
have loved you for years.” 

“And you never told me — you never let me suspect 
it!” 

“I knew that you did not care for me.” 

Sylvia sighed deeply. 

“ And now it is too late 1 Too late I ” 

He seemed on the point of speaking ; his strong 
face quivered, and in his usually cold eyes there was 
a light of intense affection, but looking at Sylvia’s 
white face, the words he would have uttered died on 
his lips. 


280 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


‘‘Another time/’ bethought, “I will tell her how 
dear she is.” 

“Shall I ring for your maid? ” he said quietly. 

“No, thank you.” 

“ Is there nothing I can do for you ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

She accompanied Ballantine to the door, very 
pale, but very quiet. 

“Good-night! ” she said. 

Mr. Ballantine turned on the threshold. 

“Sylvia,” he said, “will you forgive me; will you 
believe that what I have done has been solely in the 
effort to save you from a life of sorrow and humilia- 
tion ? ” 

“Ye6,” she said wearily, “I believe it.” Then she 
added with a flash of the old spirit, “But the remedy 
is worse than the disease. Good night! ” 

“I will see you in the morning.” 

When the hall door had shut behind Ballantine, 
Sylvia crept wearily up to her own room. She sub- 
mitted quietly to being undressed, and calmly made 
all her usual preparations for the night, dismissed her 
maid and went to bed, but not to sleep. 

As she lay there in the darkness all her past life 
unrolled itself before her eyes, and she realized how 
many mistakes she had made. The events of the 
last four months recurred to her memory, Eva’s 
treachery and Inorinski’s baseness standing out in 
bold relief against the white background of Louis 
Britton’s devotion and Paul Ballantine’s strong, 
faithful friendship. She had sacrificed the substance for 
the shadow ; she knew it now, when it was too late. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


281 


Suddenly Inorinski's form loomed up out of the 
darkness. She saw his splendid, perfectly propor- 
tioned figure, and handsome face lit up by his bril- 
liant eyes. He seemed to look at her reproachfully; 
to say, ‘‘Sylvia, how could you doubt me? I told you 
long ago that I had led a wild life, and that the follies 
of youth bore bitter fruits; that it was hard to free 
oneself from old entanglements. I told you that I 
was not worthy of you, that I had been a reckless 
fellow, but that I would be a faithful husband.’^ 

Sylvia clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut 
out the vision. Then she saw Inorinski and Eva at 
the piano; she heard again, as in the afternoon, the 
murmur of Eva’s reproachful voice, and Inorinski 
urging her to have patience. Oh ! No, no ! She did 
not love him ! He had deceived, tricked, duped her! 
When she had been revelling in his caresses, showing 
him her whole heart with unbounded confidence, lav- 
ishing all her pent up affection on him, he had been 
laughing at her. Oh, she hated him. She wished he 
had a thousand lives that she might take them all! 

A vision of her lover cold in death rose before her, 
and at that sight a sudden revolution of feeling 
swept over her and she began to weep bitterly. 

“Oh, Alexis! My love, my love!” she sobbed. 
“Why have you hurt me so cruelly, when I would 
have laid down my life to spare you an invStant’s 
pain ? Could you not love me a little, when I loved 
you so much ? When I was ready to trust my life to 
your keeping, to give you everything! possess ; when 
I placed implicit confidence in you, could you not 
have given me at least loyalty? ” 


282 


A COMMON MISTAKE, 


She seemed to hear his voice in answer, assuring 
her, as he often had done, that he loved her better 
than any one on earth, and calling her by all the 
endearing names of which he had been so prodigal. 
She seemed again to feel his arms around her, to lie 
clasped in his embrace; his passionate kisses falling 
on her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. 

‘‘Oh, my God! ’’ she moaned, “I cannot live with- 
out him ; I had rather be deceived by him than loved 
by any other man 1 I would rather share his 
caresses with another, than be deprived of them alto- 
gether.^^ 

All at once she felt furiously angry with Ballantine. 
Why had he undeceived her? What right had he to 
ruin her happiness? She had been so blissfully 
happy in her delusion; and she had known so little 
real happiness. Why need he have robbed her of her 
only joy? Oh I it was cruel! Cruel! 

She continued in this way, tortured by a thousand 
bitter thoughts intermingled with tender memories, 
weeping, moaning, calling aloud to her lover to 
come back, and she would forgive him everything, 
then, in the next breath reviling and upbraiding him 
for his treachery until she was perfectly exhausted. 

Unable to endure such a strain any longer it sud- 
denly occurred to her that she had at hand some- 
thing that would give her respite from suffering, and, 
rising, she groped her way to the bureau and lighted 
the gas. As she threw the match down, she caught 
a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and was horrified 
at the sight of her convulsed, tear-stained face. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


283 


“ This will never do/^ she thought, and, seeking the 
bottle of chloral which she always had at hand, she 
poured out a dose of the drug, swallowed it and 
crept back to bed. 

As soon as she lay down again the old torturing 
train of thought began anew. The same visions 
rose before her. Eva’s face mocking her misery. 
Inorinski’s passionate pleading. But gradually this 
phantasm grew indistinct, her thoughts became 
vague and confused ; a delicious, languorous sensation 
possessed her. She sighed heavily, stretched herself 
like a weary child, and drifted into unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“A prayer for the girl we loved — 

God love her! 

A prayer for the eyes of faded light, 

And the cheek whose red rose waned to white, 

And the quiet brow with its shadow and gleam, 

And the lashes drooped in a long, deep dream, 

And the small hands crossed for the churchyard rest, 
And the flowers dead in her sweet, dead breast. 

The girl we loved — 

God love her!” 

— Frederick L^angbridge, 


Toward noon on tlie following day Mr. Ballantine 
presented himself at the Gilchrist^s, feeling anxious, 
and a prey to an indefinable uneasiness. The butler 
informed him that Miss Gilchrist had not come 
down yet, and that Mr. Gilchrist, who was not feel- 
ing well, was in the library. The morning was 
bright, and the sunlight, pouring in through the 
windows, flooded the room with light. 

Uncle Dan sat by the fire, his neglected newspaper 
beside him on the floor. He greeted the young man 
cordially, and began at once to complain of his niece^s 
neglect. 

“I am growing an old man/’ he grumbled queru- 
lously, ‘‘and nothing annoys me so much as to eat 
my breakfast alone; I detest a solitary breakfast- 

284 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


285 


table. Sylvia knows my peculiarities, and the least 
she can do is to humor them ; it is but a small return 
for the care and devotion I have lavished on her ever 
since she was born.” 

“Miss Gilchrist had a hard day yesterday ; she — 
made a very unpleasant visit, and overtired herself; 
doubtless she felt the need of resting longer than 
usual this morning.” 

“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t 
begrudge Sylvia her rest, but the time passes slowly 
without her, and someway I feel uneasy about her. 
I wish she would get up.” 

The law 3 ^er, looking at the old man, thought how 
he had aged; how feeble and old he looked, and a 
transitory feeling of pity for the old gentleman flit- 
ted across his mind. 

“I want to see Miss Gilchrist, too,” he said, “so, 
with your permission, I will wait here till she 
appears.” 

“Do,” said Mr. Gilchrist heartily, “I shall be glad 
of your company.” 

Ballantine took his seat on the opposite side of the 
fire and sat chatting with the old gentlenf^n and 
striving to amuse him. 

Uncle Dan had a great deal to say about Sylvia ; 
spoke of how dear she was to him, and of how he 
should miss her when she went away. 

“I hate Europe,” he said, “and Russia most of all, 
but 1 suppose it will end inmy spending the rest of my 
days there, unless I can persuade Inorinski to settle 
in New York. I can’t live without that child; she 
has been my chief care, the one absorbing interest of 


286 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


my life, for nearly thirty years, and I am not going 
to be separated from her in my old age/’ 

‘‘Perhaps,” Ballantine ventured, “you will not be 
obliged to separate from her.” 

“Well, not for long, I hope. I suppose Inorinski 
won’t care for my company during the honeymoon, 
but,” the old gentleman chuckled, “I shan’t give 
them time to get tired of their tete-a-tete.'” 

“Would you be greatly disappointed if this mar- 
riage were broken off? ” Ballantine asked. 

Mr. Gilchrist hesitated. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, “I am selfish 
enough to hate to have anyone come between Sylvia 
and me, yet I want to see the child married, to feel 
that she has someone to love and protect her when I 
am gone. And I like Inorinski; he is a fine fel- 
low!” 

“And suppose he were not all you believe him 
to be? ” 

“Eh! What is that?” said the old man testily. 
“ What do you mean by asking me such a question ? ” 

“I mean,” replied Ballantine, “that Count Alexis 
Inorinski is not what he has represented himself 
to be.” 

“Is he not a count? Has he lied about his title?” 

“ His title is all right, but his character is not. I 
have learned things about him recently which have 
convinced me that he is not a proper husband for 
your niece; and as an old friend of the family, as well 
as your legal adviser, I feel it my duty to tell you 
what I know of this fellow’s history.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


287 


Mr. Gilchrist stumbled to his feet in great excite- 
ment. 

‘‘Tell me what you have heard, Paul. What is 
wrong about the man? Plis letters and credentials 
seemed all right.’’ 

“ His credentials all came from Russia, and from 
intimate friends, who were willing to lie for him, or 
who, possibly, did not know of his disgrace in 
Austria.” 

“Disgrace!” gasped the old man. “What dis- 
grace?” 

“He was dismissed from the Austrian army for 
cheating at cards. And from all I can learn about 
him, it was not his first offense; but the previous 
ones had been hushed up, owing to the influence of 
powerful friends and his family connections.” 

“My God!” cried Mr. Gilchrist, “my niece can- 
not marry such a scamp as that. How am I to tell 
her? How will she take it? She is desperately in 
love with him.” 

“I think,” said Mr. Ballantine, “that Miss Gilchrist 
is in a measure prepared for the news; and that she 
will bear it more courageously than you anticipate. 
The question is, how is the marriage to be broken off 
without creating a tremendous amount of talk?” 
Poor Mr. Gilchrist wrung his hands in despair. 

“Oh dear, oh dear! ” he groaned, “I shall never be 
able to cell her; I could not wound her so ! ” 

Mr. Ballantine looked at him sternly. 

“It is to save her from far greater unhappiness,” 
he said. 


288 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


“ I know it, I know it ! But I never could deny her 
am^thing. I was never able to thwart her. I shall 
never gain the strength to do it.” 

A sudden idea struck him: 

‘‘Paul,” he said, “you tell her! ” 

He expected that Mr. Ballantine would demur, 
and was prepared to back up his request with many 
arguments regarding the advisability of the lawyer's 
breaking the bad news ; but to his surprise the young 
man offered no objection, simply saying: 

“Very well, I will tell Sylvia.” 

He glanced at the clock; it was a quarter of one. 

“I must see her at once,” Ballantine said, “for I am 
obliged to be in court this afternoon, and I have not 
overmuch time to spare.” 

Mr. Gilchrist rang the bell. 

“Tell Angele to wake her mistress,” he said to the 
servant who answered his summons. 

A few moments later the maid herself entered the 
room. 

“Monsieur,” she said to Mr. Gilchrist, “I have 
knocked and knocked on mademoiselle's door; I 
have called her as loud as I could, but I can get no 
answer.” 

Mr. Ballantine sprang to his feet in alarm, and 
without a word rushed upstairs, followed by Mr. 
Gilchrist and the frightened maid. 

He banged and pounded on Sylvia's door, but there 
was no response, and the three looked in each other's 
white faces in mute alarm. 

“We must send for a locksmith ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Gilchrist. 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


289 


For answer Ballantine put his shoulder against the 
door, and after two or three attempts to force it the 
lock yielded. The curtains were still drawn, and 
to those who entered from the sunny hall outside the 
room seemed shrouded in darkness, and all paused 
irresolutely for an instant ; then, Ballantine advanced 
to the bedside. 

Sylvia lay on her side, one hand under her cheek, 
the other lying carelessly on the satin coverlet ; her 
hair iell loosely over her shoulders, and an expression 
of perfect repose was on her beautiful face. 

Ballantine lifted her hand ; it fell back lifeless on the 
bed. He bent and laid his head against her heart ; 
there was not the faintest pulsation; he rose to his 
feet, his face blanched and drawn. 

“She is dead ! ’’ he said hoarsely. 

Mr. Gilchrist sunk down in a low chair by the side 
of the bed ; the maid began to cry. 

At that instant a deep, musical voice, at the door- 
way asked : 

“ What is the matter ? Is Sylvia ill ? They told me 
down stairs — 

“Come in!’^ said Ballantine in a hushed voice, 
pointing toward the bed. 

Count Inorinski stepped into the room, looking in 
the direction in which Ballantine pointed ; as his eyes 
fell on Sylvia’s motionless form he started, and his 
face grew ashen. 

“What ails her?” he said turning toward the 
lawyer. 

“Nothing, now; she is dead.” 


A COMMON MISTAKE. 


290 

Inorinski threw himself on his knees beside the 
bed. 

Mr. Ballantine stepped quickly forward and seized 
him by the shoulders. 

“Don’t dare to touch her! ” he muttered hoarsely, 
“you killed her!” 

“You!” 

“What do you mean ? ” 

“She learned of your liaison w-ithMrs. Severance, 
and your treachery broke her heart.” 

Inorinski uttered a great cry. 

“ Oh, God in Heaven ! I loved her ! ” 

Solemn silence fell over the room, broken only by 
the faint twittering of Sylvia’s bird which hung in 
the window, and the sound of a man’s heavy sobs. 


THE END 


606 



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